


Free Bird

by Merenwen76



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Sam Winchester, Barebacking, Blood and Injury, Bottom Sam Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, ExSlave!Dean, Hunter!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, NSFW Art, Protective Sam Winchester, Top Dean Winchester, Younger Dean Winchester, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merenwen76/pseuds/Merenwen76
Summary: Written for the following prompt:Non-brothers AU, Sam (35 or older) is one of the best hunter, whose whole life has changed the day he rescued terrified and abused slave named Dean, who within the law is now Sam's slave...
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 69
Kudos: 239
Collections: Wincest Reverse Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darklittleheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darklittleheart/gifts).



> This is my first work for the Wincest Reverse Bang. It’s been one of my favourite ever things to write, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Fate has brought us together and have the incredible luck to work with this great artist again.  
> Please visit darklittleheart96 tumblr page here: <https://darklittleheart96.tumblr.com/post/621904077766443008/>  
> She is amazing, her art is incredible and working with her was a wonderful experience.
> 
> Many thanks to my incredible beta Jerzcaligrl, to Jld71 for he input and wonderful suggestions, to firesign10 and her motivation. And THANK YOU to all my girls from my FFF- Club. You inspire me, support me and make me laugh every day! Love you girls.
> 
> One Last note (maybe two, LOL) :This story is not a slave story in the classic sense. There are wonderful Dom/Sub stories here, this is not one of them.  
> And, especially regarding chapter one, this story was already written in April/May and has no reference to current events. 
> 
> Title is from “Free Bird“ by Lynyrd Skynyrd (Walker Remix)

[ ](https://ibb.co/p1cmgMS)

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

Sam Winchester raised the wiper speed of his Dodge Charger one notch. The rain has been getting heavier and heavier since he left Highway 26 about an hour ago. He hates working in the rain. Although it makes it easier to find possible tracks, rain always means the risk of missing something. The snap of a branch, of creeping footsteps, or the growl of a hungry vampire. A good thirty minutes ago he passed the sign for Scottsbluff. It's way past midnight, and there's hardly a car on the road. His coffee, which he'd bought at the last gas stop, is half empty and cold. He's tasted worse.

Once again, he went over his equipment in his mind. The machete is his favorite weapon. Fast, sharp, deadly. Blood-soaked bullets may slow a vampire down, but they are more for emergencies. The night-vision goggles to keep up with the bloodsuckers, Sam loves his technological toys. 

"You sure about these coordinates?" he asks Bobby one last time on the speakerphone. 

"You want to trade Princess, and I'll go hunting and you do all the work?"

"I love you too, Bobby."

"Are you sure you don't want someone else with you? You'll go a lot faster with two."

The 35-year-old hunter shakes his head vigorously, forgetting that Bobby can't see him.

"Forget it, I'm not babysitting some rookie again. I'm most effective alone."

Sam steers the Charger towards the coordinates that Bobby has sent him that morning via GPS.

The vampire nest is said to have taken up residence in a remote shed. Three or four, if Bobby's information can be trusted. They leave too many tracks. People disappear. Bodies pop up, shredded and almost drained of blood. Sam was planning on taking another day to visit the pathology department first to find out more about the victims. But time is pressing, and why wait when you can get right to the problem? Sam's fingers drum nervously on the steering wheel. His tension rises, like before every hunt. Even though this is almost a routine job, the excitement for the fight makes the adrenaline rush through his veins every time.

He plans to park the car a little further away, take his equipment, and walk the rest of the way. 

He reduces the speed of his car and is about to take the last turn when he notices the flickering lights. 

"What the fuck?"

"What's wrong, Sam?" Bobby's voice sounds slightly nervous. 

"I'll call you back." Sam ends the conversation and parks the car to get an overview of the situation.

"Shit."

He keeps the engine running. It's quiet in the car except for the squeaking sound of the windshield wipers and the rain pouring down on the car. The road in front of him goes straight ahead towards the run-down estate. It's not a warehouse as Bobby and he had suspected, more like an old farm with several barns. It looks rundown and deserted, and if it weren't for the four patrol cars that light up the night in a sea of red and blue, it'd be pitch black. 

Sam watches the surreal scenery. Two cars have spotlights which are pointed at the main entrance, where people are apparently being led away. Humans, Sam thinks, not vampires. 

Cops are pacing up and down in front of the building, several people making wild gestures with their phones. It seems they haven't been on the scene too long and no clear chain of command has been established. Two more cars are parked in front of one of the barns and this one is also illuminated. Sam thinks of a strategy to get more information, when a siren blares behind him, and a fifth car stops just behind him.

"Fuck." So much for a plan. He hastily opens the glove compartment and searches for a suitable ID.Just as he has decided on an identity, a deputy appears at his driver's side .

Sam turns off the engine and lowers the window. 

"Good evening, Officer.“

"Good evening. Can I ask what you're doing here?"

"Of course." Sam opens his badge.

"Special Agent Borden. I was just in the neighborhood and..."

"What the hell is the FBI doing here?"

"As I was trying to explain, I happened to be in the area, and I'm just offering my help."

"You Feds always say that." The officer studies Sam's badge in the light of his flashlight. After a moment, he returns it with a disapproving look. 

"OK, go ahead and talk to Sheriff Duncan. I'll let him know you're coming up."

He turns around and starts talking into his radio.

Sam starts the engine and slowly drives the last few yards to the farm .

This was  _ so _ not what he had planned. A short chase, quick kill, then eliminate the tracks, and finish with a whiskey to celebrate. That's the way the evening should have gone. Instead, he has to go out into the rain and have a talk with a sheriff who is probably as unhappy about Sam's appearance as Sam is himself. Sam parks the Dodge next to one of the police cars, sends Bobby a quick text message, and gets out of the car. For a moment he stretches his long limbs. Then he goes to the trunk of the car and takes out his raincoat, making sure that the protective cover fits perfectly over his arsenal. You wanna let sleeping dogs lie.

Sam knows that the important thing now is to make the right impression. Not appear too insecure, which makes the cops cautious and suspicious , but not too arrogant either, otherwise you'll bite on granite. He is the stranger here. He straightens up to his full size and puts his shoulders back, then he walks towards the small, fat figure, which is already stomping towards him, snorting. 

"What the fucking hell do the Feds want here?"

_ Well, this is starting off promisingly. _

Once again, Sam takes out his badge.

"As I told your colleague, Sheriff Duncan, I'm just here to offer my help. I don't want to make you or your fellow officers feel like I'm one-upping you."

Sheriff Duncan has to tilt his head back a little bit to look up to Sam. Sometimes Sam is grateful for his height advantage. 

The man seems to be in his forties, and in a pathetic attempt to block the rain, over his uniform he has on a thin, black raincoat; it gives him the appearance of a large, over-bundled up child, unable to move his arms freely.

But, of course Duncan is not pleased with Sam showing up at  _ his _ crime scene. 

"Does your supervisor know about this  _ impromptu _ visit Borden?"

Duncan shifts from one foot to the other, while the fat raindrops roll down Sam's neck, and his patience runs out.

"Yes, Sheriff, he knows that. But, of course, you're free to ring him out of bed and ask for it if you'd like."

Sam looks at him, challengingly .

"You bet I would."

Sam rolls his eyes. Same dick measuring shit  _ every _ time. He should have brought his cigarettes. And a ruler.

Angrily, the sheriff stompes a few yards away from Sam and punched the number he was given into his phone. It's routine from here on out. Sam watches with an amused expression as the sheriff gets visibly smaller during the phone call.  _ Damn _ , that's the third bottle of Jim Beam he owes Bobby. 

"All right, Agent Borden," Duncan’s voice is distinctly more friendly, "come with me. I want out of this fucking rain."

_ The first sensible line he's uttered _ , thinks Sam and follows the sheriff into the main building. 

Sam lets Duncan go first. The house is, contrary to expectations, quite warm, and Sam opens his jacket and flips the hood back off his head. His hair curls from the humidity . From the corner of his eye he sees Duncan's disparaging look at his long hair, but he has neither the time nor the inclination to get into it.

Several policemen are wandering around the rooms, the whirring of a camera and the repeated flickering of the flash coming from one room in particular.

"I hope you haven't eaten. This sight is not for anyone with a weak stomach ." Sam takes in the sarcastic tone of Duncan's voice. He could have told him that just five days ago he had killed a ghoul by repeatedly hitting its head with a rusty shovel until it exploded. While in the shower later, he was still scrubbing brain matter from his body. But what good would it do? "I think I can take it," he says instead.

As they walk into the living room, Sam looks out of the window, as a police car is driving away. Probably with the two people being taken in. Dammit, he has to make sure that they are definitely only people, and not monsters.

The living room itself looks like the aftermath of a fight. Armchairs have fallen over, furniture has been destroyed, and the lifeless body of a man lies on the floor. Neat, early fifties. 

"Still waiting for the coroner,“ Duncan says as a way to explain the mess and the body.

Sam studies the scene carefully. The man was apparently hit by two bullets in the chest. Normal bullets. Not a vampire then. The body lies there, pale in its own blood and piss. Absolutely no sign of anything supernatural. 

"The short version, Sheriff." Whatever Bobby's intel was, it was wrong, and Sam wants to get the hell out of here.

"We got a tip on an illegal dogfight. You know where they train the animals to kill each other and bet which one survives."

Sam nods, he abhors violence against animals, he loves dogs, and the guy lying dead in front of him is lucky that Sam didn't catch him first.

"What about that?" Sam looks away from the body as he sees movement outside at the barn.

"Well, the tip was wrong."

_ Not just yours _ , Sam thinks.

Duncan continues.

"But the check turned out they weren't letting dogs fight each other, they used slaves." 

" _ What _ ?" Sam turns back around.

"Yeah, I know, and normally we would have just gone back to the station, but then the weirdo here started to fuck with us, then one thing led to another and we opened fire.

Total self-defense, Agent. You gotta believe me."

Sam turns away from the scene and moves his hand over his mouth.

He's got to get out of here. Quickly. Before he says the wrong thing. 

Slaves are a part of society that does exist, but you don't talk about them. Officially, they are people without any legal claim. Homeless, orphans, child molesters, whoever would have nothing left but death unless they renounce their rights as human beings. Always under the guise of being voluntarily, of course. But what choice did they have really? Sam has had some impossible discussions in his past, as a teenager who wanted to fight the system. The cockiness of youth that you only have to shout loud enough to be heard. But slaves were also, unfortunately, an industry. Too many rich and successful people with influence have earned the privilege to own a legal slave; for housework, as a nanny and, how do you call it officially, "physical support".

That was the official description . All your debts to the state would be paid off, but then you belonged to the system, body and soul.

The gray area ...collateral damage. Prostitution, drugs, illegal fights. Turn over a stone and you will find a snake. 

"What happens to the slaves now?" Sam hears himself ask.  _ Stay out of this, Sam. It's not your business. Get the hell out of here. _

He hears the voice in his head, but he can't help but ask anyway. He has to know.

„One's already dead, didn't survive the fight.

The other three aren't worth much either.

They trained them pretty good. I don't think they even know they're human anymore. Anyway, they're so fucked up, it doesn't matter now anyway.“

"What do you mean by that?"

Duncan just shrugs his shoulders

"We'll just put them to sleep."

At that moment a rifle shot breaks the silence from outside.

Sam's eyes grow large and concerned .

He starts running even before his brain has processed the information. 

Outside, the rain pours down in his face. His hair is stuck to his neck . A few yards away, he sees two cops, standing. One of them is holding a rifle.

Kneeling opposite him are two figures helplessly exposed to the power of the law. A third figure is already lying lifeless in the rain. 

"No!  _ Stop _ !" Sam yells at the cop . His lungs are burning and a second shot makes him flinch . The second figure collapses. 

"God damn it,  _ stop _ !" Sam draws his gun. 

He takes the safety off and shoots up in the air at the same moment.

Three things happen almost simultaneously. 

Sam runs as if his own life is at stake, screaming "FBI" and pointing a gun at the cop. He spins around in horror, undecided what to do next.

And the third, still living slave clumsily raises his head and looks at Sam. Green, hopeless eyes stare directly at him and Sam stumbles. It is as if a blow hits him. But he catches himself, only more spurred on, and finally stands between the two cops and the man.

Sam raises both arms in the air, showing his gun. He breathes heavily, and his voice is loud and thunderous.

"One more shot and I  _ swear _ deputy, it'll be your last." The young man looks over to his sheriff, who has followed Sam while loudly panting and cursing.

"Agent Borden, cut the crap. Let the young man do his job." 

" _His_ _job_?" Sam's voice is shrill, his nerves are exposed.

"He shot people!"

"Slaves!" Duncan corrects him.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"What else can we do with them? Abandon them? Their owner lies dead in his house. 

And by law they must be transferred to someone else within twelve hours of their owner's death, otherwise the regulation is clear. And looking at him," he motions to the green-eyed slave on the ground, "he won't last much longer with those wounds. We're just doing him a favor here."

Sam turns around and has to fight the tears. He must not show any weakness here now, but it tears his heart apart. The young man before him is in chains, and a heavy, rusted collar has eaten into his neck. His clothes are covered in blood, his hair is wet and matted over his face. Sam can no longer see the difference between a fresh wound and an old one. But it's the man's eyes that won't let him go. Pleading, huge eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes.

Sam's brain is working like crazy.

"Agent, I'm gonna have to ask you to step aside."

Duncan's gonna try it one more time. Sam can see the young cop ready to raise his gun.

"One more step, Deputy, and you'll regret it." Sam's voice is cold.

"I am the highest ranking officer here, and I will now take this slave myself and hand him over to my superior. I will leave this place with him on the spot and relieve you of any responsibility towards him. Is that clear, Sheriff Duncan, or do you wanna talk to my supervisor again?"

It's dead quiet for a moment. 

The red-blue flickering from the police cars forms an almost grimace-like pattern on Sheriff Duncan's face. Pride and anger, but also resignation are reflected. And Sam resolutely resists. 

Then he sees Duncan's face break and he stomps angrily to the side.

"Let him take the cripple," he says to his men. Then to Sam, „Leave us alone with this shit and get the fuck out of here." 

Sam doesn't hesitate. He puts his gun away and bends over the kneeling man. 

"Can you stand up?"

Groaning,the man rises, and Sam realizes that he is only a little bit shorter than himself. . But as soon as he stands, he almost collapses again. At the last moment Sam catches him and grabs him under his arms. Slowly, he drags the man to the Charger.

"Ten bucks says he croaks in the car," one of the cops comments.

"The asshole just wants to get something cheap to fuck," the other cop says with a sneer.

Sam bites his lip at the crude comments. He quickly opens the passenger door of the charger. Very carefully he puts the young slave on the seat and straps him in. He seems to be unconscious and Sam is relieved as he can feel his pulse and breath. He has almost gone around the car when he looks at the two deputies one last time . One of them kicks insolently at the corpse of one of the slaves, while the other one places his hand over his crotch and laughs over at Sam. Taking four big steps, Sam is in front of him. The young deputy is still grinning when two of his teeth land in the muddy ground. Sam's knuckles are bloodied and one is probably broken. He really should have brought the cigarettes.

The Chargers's engine roars and the wheels eat through the mud. Worriedly, he looks at the man sleeping in the seat next to him.

It's only when the car rolls a bit down the highway that Sam starts breathing normally again.

He dials Bobby's number.

"You son of a bitch, are you gonna tell me what's going on over there?“

Sam was still relieved to hear the old man's barking.

"Bobby, I need your help." 


	2. Chapter 2

[](https://imgbb.com/)

Rain crashes against the windshield. Street lights illuminate the inside of the car briefly, but he does not dare to open his eyes. 

_ Everyone is dead, why isn’t he? _

"Hey, how are you?" The new master ask.

_ Don't move, pretend you're deaf. _

"My name is Sam. Sam Winchester." 

_ I'll call you master anyway. _

"You got a name?"

_ Slaves have no name. _

“Shit what have I done?“

_ Master is nervous and angry. A bad combination. _

"We'll stop at the next town and look for a room. I need to see to your wounds, okay?"

_ Whatever you say. _

He killed a young one. He won, and his Master was proud. Now, his old Master is dead. And he should be too. The other two have been redeemed. He was so close. He begged the man with his eyes to kill him too. But... Fate had other plans for him.

"I need a drink."

_ Drunks, they're the worst. _

  
  
  


Sam takes the highway exit and heads to a simple Days Inn. 

_ Ground floor, quiet room, no club member.  _

He hands the pale boy with the fake smile his fake credit card and waits for the key. 

Again and again he looks out to his Charger.

The dark outlines of the young man are clearly visible.

Sam was still not sure how severe his injuries really were.

In between the drive, he carefully felt the pulse on the young man's neck.

Immediately, Sam felt his tension and how the pulse rate increased under his fingers. Sam was aware that the man was only pretending to sleep. But actually he was grateful for the silence. 

Sam goes back to the car and drives it to the end of the motel.

He parks the car in front of the door to their room and shuts off the engine. 

"Here we are." He touches the man gently on the shoulder.

Sams voice shouldn't shake like that.

Slowly the stranger beside him opens his eyes. And Sam feels the same fascination as the first time.

"Come."

Sam unbuckles both seat belts and gets out.

From the trunk, he takes his travel bag and the expanded first aid kit, as he does not yet know what to expect .

Carefully, the man gets out. Sam locks the car and the man follows him towards the door. He manages four steps before collapsing and Sam drops the backpack, cursing. 

"Why didn't you say something?" Sam carefully reaches under the man's arm and drags him to the door.

_ Maybe he's mute? _

Sam's getting a bad feeling. 

He holds the man firmly in his arms while he unlocks the door to the room. Carefully, he carries him to one of the two queen-sized beds.

The advantage of these motel chains is that the rooms always look the same. The beds are always the same and the bathroom is always right next to them.

After Sam has put the man on the bed, he grabs his backpack and turns on the light. Entering the bathroom, he grabs the ice cube container and goes outside to the vending machines. The rain has subsided. Oily puddles fill the potholes of the parking lot. While he fills the bucket with ice and buys two Cokes, a family of raccoons watches him from the roof. He gets a Snickers and a bag of chips and throws the chips on the roof. Sam lights a cigarette and takes four quick puffs until he is back in front of the door to their room.

Sam opens the door and enters the brightly lit room. The young man lies unmoving on the bed. His breathing is steady, which is a good sign, but Sam doesn't believe for a second that he is sleeping. Sam puts the Coke and the Snickers on the small desk and sits down on the edge of the bed. He studies the man intently. He is not as young as Sam first thought, maybe in his mid-twenties. His face is marked by the fight and there is blood in his matted, dark blond hair. The heavy collar around his neck makes Sam worry, as the skin in the area is obviously infected. He is wearing a dark jacket that seems to be much too big. It was probably given to him to protect him from the rain. Sam snorts, why put it on first and then execute them like cattle anyway?

Anyway, Sam lets his gaze wander. The jeans are torn and show spots of grass and blood, the sneakers have also seen better days and don't really seem to stop the water anymore. The last thing he looks at are the man's hands. They remind him of his own, the knuckles are swollen and dried blood is caked on them. The man is still in chains. Everything had to move fast earlier, and Sam had neither the time, nor the light, nor the right tools to solve everything. "Hey, I know you're awake. And it'd be nicer for both of us if you looked at me when we talked." Sam's voice is soft, but firm.

Long, lush lashes flutter open to reveal emerald green eyes. His gaze is careful, tense, and fearful. But also stubborn and attentive.

Can you fall in love with eyes? Sam asks himself and immediately pushes the thought aside.

"Hey." Sam smiles at him like a six-year-old boy who needs to be dragged to the dentist. "I'm Sam. And I understand that this is all a lot for you to handle right now, but believe me, I just want to help you. Can you understand me?"

The man lying before him nods.

"Do you have a name? I'd like to call you something?"

The young man just shrugs his shoulders.

This is gonna be fun.

"Can you talk? Answer me, please!"

The eyes of the man wander over Sam's face. He seems to be assessing his options. Then he licks his full lips with his tongue and answers quietly. "Yes, Master."

Sam takes a deep breath. 

"It's Sam, okay? Well, if you won't tell me your name, then I guess I'll just have to pick one. I'm not calling you John Doe. How about Jenny?“ 

Sam smiles at him, teasing.

"Whatever you wish, Master Sam."

His voice sounds submissive, but in his eyes Sam can see his resistance flashing again, which makes Sam smile.

"No, really, it's just Sam, okay? Anyway, that name doesn't fit you. Suggestion, how about until you're ready to tell me your name, I'll call you 'Tom', okay?“

Sam gets up and goes to the bathroom. He runs hot water into the hand basin and takes the towels. He soaks one towel completely in the water.

Then he goes back to his backpack and searches for the lock pick. 

'Tom' hasn't moved an inch. "I'm gonna try to loosen up your handcuffs now, then I'll take a look at your wounds and patch them." Sam sits down on the bed again but this time much closer, so that he can reach Tom's handcuffs. "This may hurt, and I'm sorry, but don't make me regret untying you. Believe me, you do not want to know what I'm capable of if you try to attack me."

Sam senses that Tom is getting tense again and he's sorry, but he has to be sure, and right now he doesn't trust the young man in front of him any more than the young man trusts him. With practiced fingers, Sam tampers with the lock of the handcuffs and shortly afterwards he hears the releasing 'click'. Sam throws them on the floor behind him and massages Tom's cold, raw wrists. Bruises and scratches are all over his forearms. 

"We're gonna take your jacket off now, okay?"

Tom obeys, defenseless.He straightens his upper body and Sam takes off his dark jacket. Underneath he sees a light, but sweaty shirt and a dark green t-shirt. Sam also removes the shirt from his body, feeling his arms, strong, but too thin. The t-shirt fits closely to Tom's body, muscles are visible underneath, but his whole body is emaciated. Sam also throws the shirt to the floor and turns around again. Tom is still sitting upright and they almost sit opposite each other. Sam feels the warmth coming from the other man and the breath on his skin. Too close, too intimate, Sam just wants to help him. And yet he can't take his eyes off Tom's face, those big eyes, that prominent chin, and those sensual lips. His hand carefully wanders over Tom's face, stroking over stubble and freckles. Then Sam's fingers slide down his chin to his neck. Tom doesn't flinch, but the corners of his mouth betray his pain.

"I'm sorry." Sam looks at him once more, then he tampers with the lock on the collar. Professional, methodical. He hears Tom's breath and how it's accelerating. The skin is ingrown, the pain must be terrible, but not a sound makes it pass Tom's lips. Even when the lock pops open the worst is not over. With every inch, Sam uncovers more raw, inflamed skin. Silent tears run down Tom's face. Fresh blood oozes from the ripped skin, down his neck. When it's finally over, tears run down Sam's face, too.

"Who did this to you?"

Tom just looks at him.

_ Say something, anything, damn it. _

"I gotta clean this and bandage it up. You ain't gonna like that either.“

Of course there's no answer.

Sam opens the first-aid kit and goes to work. How many of his own wounds has he treated himself, cuts, scrapes, bites, even a bullet he's cut from his body? He'd rather be doing that right now. 

Quickly he cleans the wound, applies ointment where he can, and bandages everything. The wound will weep, but the first step has been taken. 

Tom’s thin t-shirt is sweaty and Sam notices how much everything sticks to him. 

"Okay, let's take a look at the rest.“ Sam lifts up the t-shirt slightly and Tom looks down. "I just want to check the wounds." 

Tom stares forward again, expressionless, and lifts his arms. 

Carefully, Sam pulls the green t-shirt over Tom's head. With his upper body naked, he sits in front of Sam and Sam  _ should not _ , but he cannot take his eyes off the little dark nipples, hard and firm. Shame is spreading in Sam and he curses his cock, which is throbbing half-hard in his pants. Sam ignores it .

Sam unties Tom's shoes and takes off his wet socks.

He unzips Tom's jeans, trying to be as professional as possible. Slips his jeans down over his long legs. Then he gets the towels out of the bathroom. He ignores his reflection, too ashamed of what he might see in it.

Tom's laying back on the bed. Stiff and still he lies there, ready to let anything happen to him.

Sam analyzes the body in front of him, bruises almost all over it, with a particularly dark spot on the ribcage. One rib is probably broken. He uses the wet towel to clean all of the blood from Tom's upper body.His fingers feel over the ribs. A slight twitch from Tom confirms his suspicions. There is another open wound on Tom's thigh. No wonder he could hardly walk. Sam gets a needle and thread. He doesn't even ask anymore, just starts stitching after he has cleaned the wound. Tom's muscle twitches every time Sam pokes the needle into his flesh, but there is no sound coming from the man. Sam rinses out the towel, watching the blood running down the sink, and comes back to wash Tom's legs. It's quiet in the room and it feels too intimate. But Sam slowly rubs the towel over each part of Tom's body, making sure that he cleans away the sweat, the dirt, and the past.

Then, he asks Tom to turn around. Tom's back shows a history of beatings and punishments. Cuts; some have been left untreated and are poorly healed, and welts and scars from whip lashes. Sam's fingers automatically move over the old wounds. Some are more recent , the crusts not yet healed. The pain must be terrible.

Sam looks over Tom's back and stops to look at the thin, worn briefs. This is something he wants to avoid, but he knows he can't . Desperately he weighs what to do. Finally, he just goes for it . Gently, he pulls the briefs down and Sam's breath stops. Again there are traces of punishment, but the worst is the dried, brown blood that shows between Tom's pale buttocks. 

"Oh, my God."

Gently, and with trembling fingers, Sam takes the towel and wipes over the dried blood and other fluids. Tom whimpers, for the first time Sam hears something from him and Sam's stomach turns over at the thought of how long the young man must have been bleeding, and especially why. Sam makes sure everything is clean. He applies ointment and takes the towels back to the bathroom. The sink is coloured red and the bright, artificial light is even more of a contrast. Sam takes a fresh pair of his underwear and a t-shirt out of his backpack and helps Tom to get dressed.

The wounds are inflamed, the broken ribs are painful, and everything will need time to heal, but none of the wounds are life-threatening. The mental injuries are another thing altogether. Sam's saliva tastes bitter. He takes the plastic bag from the garbage can and throws in everything that was on Tom's body. Collar, handcuffs, clothes. Then he goes to the minibar. With his large hand, he takes as many small bottles as he can hold .

"I'll be right back," he says to Tom, and walks out the door. 

He dumps Tom`s past in a dumpster behind the hotel. Then he keeps on walking, across the parking lot, across the street, until he has grass under his feet. He hears the hum of the interstate and unscrews the cap of the first liquor bottle. He can't even taste the cheap liquor on his tongue. The next one goes down right after that. Sam doesn't realize that he's screaming. The desire to beat something, to destroy something, grows.

The third bottle flies empty into the bushes and finally, finally, he bends over and pukes his guts out.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

[](https://imgbb.com/)

Tom looks tensely at the door.

Master Sam has been gone for a while. Tom is still lying on the bed, stiff as a poker. His bladder is full, but Master has not allowed him to get up. 

It must be a test. Master Sam wants to see how strong Tom is. How good he is. The hotel room door is unlocked. The little voice inside of him wants to escape. That voice always gets him into trouble.

_ We'll beat that stubbornness out of you yet, boy. _

Tom's hands shake slightly, and he is sitting up a little straighter. Just a little bit. To take some of the pressure off his bladder. His wrists hurt. And he feels naked without his collar. The irony is not lost on him. He's wearing more clothes than he had in the last few weeks, but the collar always gave him stability, security and let him know where he belonged. His new master is so different. Tom doesn't know what to do. Master Sam doesn't give orders, and he doesn't want Tom touching him. 

The wound on Tom`s neck is throbbing. Master Sam's fingers were so soft on his skin. He was so tender. 

But what if it's all just a game? What if Master Sam is waiting outside the door, hoping that Tom will try to get up and run away just to catch him? Maybe he's waiting with some friends and they're betting on how many minutes before he tries to escape. Oh, no, he's not gonna give them the satisfaction. Tom's used to having bets placed on him, but mostly it's about fighting. He's good, fast, and merciless. And he must be ruthless, because his opponents are ruthless, too. Once, at the beginning of his training, when he was still weak, he wanted to show mercy. The boy was already on the ground. He was defeated, but Tom refuse to kill him. Then  _ they _ tortured the boy. For hours he had to listen to the boy's cries, for hours they forced him to watch. He couldn't look away. And then they beet him, too. And again and again with every blow that landed onhis back, his master at the time, let him know that it was Tom's fault. That every scream of the boy, every mark on Tom's back was  _ his own  _ fault.

Tom never hesitated again.

But that master was now dead. 

Shocked, he hears the door opening. He was lost in his own horrific memories, that he didn't notice the footsteps outside. The bright light from outside illuminates Master Sam, making him look like a giant. Big and strong, he stands in the doorway, and Tom holds his breath for a moment. Master Sam has taken everything Tom owned with him, but he has come back empty-handed. Tom has nothing left. Tom watches as Master Sam looks at him, he smells of alcohol and vomit. Not a mixture unknown to Tom. But unlike most of those he has met, Master Sam does not look at him as if he wants to blame Tom for his condition. "Why didn’t you turn on the lights?", Master Sam asks. Tom looks at his hands again. Master Sam sighs and goes over to his own bed. The disappointment in his voice makes Tom flinch.

Sam sits on the edge of the bed, his arms on his thighs.

"We are going to see a friend of mine. We can stay there for a while.

We'll tend to your wounds and figure out a way to give you a new identity."

Tom turns his head and looks at Master Sam. What does he need an ID for? 

"Listen, I'm tired and I don't feel like staying awake. If you want to get out of here tonight, I'm not going to stop you, okay? Try and do it on your own. Good luck.

But if you try to ambush me or steal anything from me..."

Tom's eyes are getting big.

"...You're gonna regret it, you understand?"

Tom nods.

"Good, then we're settled. I'm gonna take a shower. Do you need to use the bathroom first?"

Relief must be written all over Tom's face, but Master Sam says nothing.

Tom swings himself off the bed and quickly does his business in the bathroom.

When he comes back, he slips under the covers.

Master Sam goes into the bathroom, but he only leaving the door ajar.

Tom hears the sound of the running water and looks back at the room's front door.

Should he leave? If he runs, he'll have a head start.

Tom's fast. But where will he go?

_ As long as he's free _ ,  _ does it matter? _ the voice screams again. That damned voice that won't accept his fate.  _ The voice  _ that made him rebel against his capture. That had refused to obey.  _ The voice _ that resisted when the men held him down. That made him bite when they tried to open his mouth. That hated being called pet names. ( _ Jenny, for example _ .) 

They beat him, kicked him, spat on him and... but  _ that voice  _ inside of him, nobody could tame.

Master Sam is turning off the water, and Tom's raising the blanket up under his chin.

Master Sam comes out of the bathroom, wearing a fresh shirt and shorts.He looks at Tom and nods at him.He goes to his backpack and takes out a pistol, placing it under his pillow.

"Good night Tom." Master Sam turns off the light.

Tom doesn't answer. He looks at the door in the darkness.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Sam wakes up after a restless night. He trusted his instinct that Tom wouldn't hurt him. But his subconscious still wouldn't let him fall into a deep sleep. And Tom didn't really seem to be asleep either. 

Overtired, and with a sore neck, Sam sat up. He is sure that Tom is awake, but he has his eyes closed tightly. 

Sam yawns, and then stands up and walks to the small kettle and fills it with water. As the water heats up, he fills two cups with the instant coffee powder.

_ Better than nothing _ , he thinks, and lets the boiling water flow over the brown mass.

He looks over to Tom. The smell of makes him opens his eyes and he looks over to Sam and wrinkles his nose.

"Good morning, how do you drink your coffee?"

Tom looks at him uncomprehendingly, and Sam feel up like the a complete idiot. The man's been in captivity for years, barely escaped death yesterday, and you ask him how he likes his coffee. Sam rubs his neck, embarrassed.

"I'll... I'll put the creamers and sugar in here and you just decide for yourself, okay?"

He puts in three packets of sugar and he stirs it with the tiny, too thin, plastic stick. 

Sam opens the door and steps out into the motel hallway. He digs out the pack of cigarettes and lights one. He's not used to talking in the morning. He's not used to anyone spending the night with him. A blow job in an alley, maybe a quick fuck in a strange city, that's it. Out here in this parking lot between trash bins and asphalt, he's himself again. The lone wolf, as Bobby calls him. That's nicer than most people talk about him behind his back.  _ Cold, emotionless, unattached. _

He thought Tom was gone. Sam was counting on the man to take the first chance he got to run. And what worries Sam the most, is that in some twisted way, he's glad he's still here. His phone vibrates. Another hunter asking for support on a case. He flicks away his cigarette and finishes his coffee. Then he texts back that he won't be available for the next few days. He has an important case.

Back in the room, his gaze falls on the empty coffee mug in the wastebasket. 

"If you liked this crap, wait for Bobby's," Sam smiles. 

His and Tom's bed is made. Sam searches his backpack for a pair of clean jeans and a flannel shirt. It'll be a little too big for Tom, but it'll have to do.

An hour or so later they are sitting in the car. Sam is looking for a classic rock radio station and Tom looks out the window at the countryside. 

Sam keeps looking over to him and although they are silent the entire time, it is one of the most relaxed rides Sam has ever had.

In daylight, Sam notices how pale Tom is. He's had too little sun. All the more amazing are the many little freckles on his arms and face. 

Long, thick lashes frame his leaf-green eyes. No doubt, Tom is handsome. He might be someone Sam would definitely look at, and maybe even more if it were not for the bandage that goes all around his neck. In some places, Sam sees blood sleeping through the bandages. He'll have to change the bandage at Bobby's. 

Zeppelin plays on the radio and Sam drifts off with his thoughts, drumming on the steering wheel with his thumbs in time to the beat. He almost missed it, but Tom's fingertips are playing to the beat on his thigh. Tom continues to look outwards at the road, but his fingers betray him. Sam smiles to himself. And wonders how a little gesture can fill him with such warmth.

  
  
  


Sam steers the Dodge onto the dirt road that leads to Bobby's junkyard. A familiar feeling surrounds him as he heads for the old, somewhat run-down house.

"Bobby's a good guy, maybe a little rough around the edges, but you can trust him."

Tom's eyes actually say it all.  _ I don't even trust you. _

Sam sighs and shuts off the engine.

Then he opens the driver's door and gets his stuff. This time Tom gets out on his own and goes around the car. They barely take two steps towards the house when the front door is opened and an older man and a black Rottweiler come out.

The dog runs straight towards Sam and barks at him in delight. Sam only sees Tom turn as white as a sheet, but it is too late. 

"Rumsfeld, sit." Bobby's voice is booming. 

The Rottweiler comes to a halt only a few inches before Tom and sits down in front of him. Tom trembles. He tries not to show it, but his whole body shakes. Bobby comes towards them both.

"Sorry I should have left him in."

"It's all right, Bobby." Sam walks up to Tom and grasps his arm gently.

"He won't hurt you. It's okay."

Bobby looks at the scene in front of him.

Sam puts his backpack on the ground and carefully leads the Tom past Rumsfeld.

Bobby has seen many sides to Sam over the years. Focused, efficient, straightforward, but never before has he witnessed such empathy.

Sam speaks softly to the young man and they climb the steps to Bobby's house.

Rumsfeld turns to Bobby, asking his master what's going on.

"Don't look at me like that, I don't know either." 

Sam takes Tom to the top floor. The room that Bobby keeps ready for him whenever he comes over for the night. He puts Tom on the bed and sits next to him.

"I'm gonna talk to Bobby for a minute. The bathroom's right next door. We'll get you some new clothes tomorrow. Feel free to come down when you’re ready."

Tom's eyes are still wide, but not as fearful as they were around the dog. Sam pats his shoulder briefly, then he gets up and leaves the room.

He finds Bobby in the kitchen, already cooking a chili on the stove. Bobby is not known for healthy food, but it is good for the soul.

Bobby gets two beers from the fridge. He twists the cap off and hands one to Sam. "Sam, I swear to you I didn't know anything about this. I really thought it was a vampire nest."

Sam waves him off. "You don't have to apologize.“ 

They sit down at the kitchen table.

"How is he?"

"I don't know." Sam takes a sip. "He's so quiet. Bobby, they did things to him." Sam's voice gets fragile.

"Slavery is the blight of our oh-so-modern society. And we look away because we're not affected." Bobby snorts contemptuously. 

"Bobby, if this guy were alive, I would kill him myself." Sam grips the bottle until his knuckles are white.

"All the more reason he's here now."

"He doesn't trust me, Bobby. I can see it. Yes, he's following me, and I'm sure he'll do anything I tell him, but his eyes, there's this little fire in his eyes."

Bobby looks at Sam for a long time. "Sam, it's none of my business, but maybe you shouldn't expect too much. You don't know how much those guys have destroyed him. Maybe you can't help him. I don't want you to get caught up in anything you can't handle."

Sam leans back in his chair.

"You're right, it is none of your business."

"Sam..."

"No, Bobby, this boy has been abused, beaten, and humiliated, and yet I see in his eyes a stronger will than I have seen in many a hunter. I will fight for him, Bobby. The boy is worth saving. I don't know why, but he is."

Bobby nods. "What are we gonna do?" 

Sam breathes a sigh of relief. "He's got to learn to trust. And then learn to act on his own again. To be free. To do what he wants."

Bobby empties his bottle.

"Son, you can stay as long as you want. But answer me one question, Sam. When he's ready. If he wants to be free, will you let him go?"

Shocked, Sam looks at him.

"Of course." 

The last sip of beer tastes flat in his mouth.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

[](https://imgbb.com/)

Tom can hear the two men talking downstairs. He can't understand the words, but the discussion is short and loud. He looks around the room anxiously, tries to remember the last time he was alone in such a room without restraints. No cellar, no musty, windowless shithole. No, this is a real room. The Queen size bed is under the pitched roof. The wallpaper is certainly not the newest, but the floral pattern reminds Tom of a flower meadow as he remembers it from his childhood. 

" _ Come here, darling. Are you hungry? Want me to make you a sandwich, D...? _ " 

Painfully, the memory comes back to him. That life was so long ago.

His fingers glide across the wallpaper. Opposite is a dark brown wooden cupboard, massive and antique. A pendulum clock on the wall has stopped, it seems to be like the whole room, from another time, or another life. It's as if they've locked the door and forgot about it.  _ Like me _ , Tom thinks. He is unsure about his next steps. What is expected of him? Should he go downstairs? Alone? When is the expected time and what should he wear? His palms get damp. He walks cautiously to the window and looks out, hidden from view. Careful that he can't be seen from outside.

" _ You be quiet. Not a sound. If I hear you make a sound, you'll regret it.“ _

Tom steps away from the window. At least the dog doesn't seem to be outside anymore. Does he have to fight him? Is that why he's here? For a moment he felt safe, his new master had such a soft, warm voice.Then he saw the huge, black dog and he feared the worst. He hates to fight against humans. But the dog fights, he fears those. 

Tom shudders at the thought of the last beast/human fight. He really believed that this time it would be his last. The beast had bitten his calf. The pain was unbearable. The people around him roared. And he fought for his life. He saw stars behind his eyelids because of the pain. Until suddenly the adrenaline kicked in and so did his pure will to survive. He activated his last resources and fought back until he broke the damn beast's jaw with his other boot. The cracking sound, when the jaw broke, and later the dog`s neck, he will never forget. Tom massages the scarred wound. From outside he hears footsteps and he quickly sits back on the bed.

The lock on the door creaks when it is opened. Master Sam stands in the doorway, looking tired. "Hey," he says quietly. In his hand he holds a plate. He comes further into the room and closes the door behind him. "I brought you some food." Again Sam looks at him as if he expects a certain reaction from Tom. 

"Thank you, Master Sam." Tom avoids eye contact. 

Sam sighs softly, "Please just call me Sam, okay?" Sam carefully approaches the bed. "May I sit with you?"

Tom doesn't understand the question. Why would he get to decide where Ma... Sam wants to sit? He slides over a little and Sam takes a seat next to him. Sam slides so far back that his upper body leans against the wall, legs stretched out, dangling over the bed. He puts the plate between them.

Tom remains sitting at the edge of the bed. But he doesn't like the feeling of having Sam at his back. Again and again he looks back over his shoulder, but Sam continues to lean, relaxed against the wall.

"When you decide, just come and eat with me, okay?" Sam's voice is gentle and comforting.

Several more minutes pass before Tom gives in. He also slides backwards, leans his upper body against the wall and looks at Sam from the corner of his eye.

If Sam is satisfied with this, he doesn't show it. Instead, he reaches for one of the two grilled cheese sandwiches on the plate. "The other one is for you," he announces just before he takes a hearty bite. 

Tom looks at the plate and then at Sam's face. The cheese has left a shiny mark on his chin and lips and Tom can't deny that Sam's chin has something appealing. Lost in thought, Tom licks his lips. His growling stomach breaks the silence.

"I would have given you some of Bobby's chili, but it's really spicy and I didn't want to take any chances." Sam winks at him and takes another bite of his sandwich.

While Tom struggles to eat from the same plate as his master - no  _ Sam _ \- the man simply continues to talk. "Bobby's food is like coming home. I mean, it's probably not healthy , and I think his ratio of beer to water in the chili would drive Martha Stewart crazy. But this simple sandwich has saved me during many a long drive. Just don't tell him that." Sam laughs and his dimples show up briefly before he takes another bite. There's a warm feeling in Tom that he hasn't felt in years. It scares him more than the Rottweiler barking outside. 

  
  
  
  


Sam doesn't remember ever talking that much about food. Usually, eating is a functional process for him at any one of the countless diners along the road. Sam hates junk food, it's greasy, unhealthy, and in most cases, far from the promotional image. When Tom didn't come down to them, it was clear that Sam was expecting too much from him. Or rather, Bobby made it clear to him.

"What do you think? That the boy is capable of acting on his own overnight?" he asked Sam angrily, as he waved the spoon in Sam's direction. 

Sam knew no real answer to this. "I thought…“

Bobby snorted. "You thought you were going to save a slave, put ten dollars in his hand, and drop him off at the next bus station.“ 

"No, of course not!" Sam replied, which was exactly what he had in mind at first.

"What should I do? I can't force him to talk, can I? Or to eat!" Sam stares hungrily at the chili simmering on Bobby's stove.

Bobby takes a sip of his beer. "Sam, maybe that's what you need to do."

"Excuse me?"

"He's used to getting instructions. He used to be told when to sleep, when to eat, you know." Bobby's stirring the big pot again." I'm not saying I like it, but maybe he needs this."

Sam chews his lower lip between his teeth as he thinks things over. "No, I will not treat him like a slave, not for one day. But you may be right, maybe I do expect too much. Maybe I just need to give him time to trust me."

Bobby nods and hands Sam a spoon. "You can stay here as long as you need to, you know that."

Sam grabs the spoon and steps up to the stove next to Bobby. His shoulder bumps against Bobby's. It's Sam's way of saying thanks. Then he dips the spoon in the hot chili and tastes it. "Uhh." Heat spreads across his tongue and down his throat and he has to cough.

Bobby laughs. "Good, isn't it!!"

Sam is still coughing, but gives Bobby a thumbs up. Then he takes a sip of the cooling beer. "Great, really. But do you think I could ask you to do one more thing?"

Bobby raises his eyebrow inquiringly and Sam puts on his most charming smile.

With the plate in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, Sam balances his way up the stairs . As expected, Tom did not appear downstairs. 

And Sam is not really surprised that Tom sits motionless on the big bed and looks at him with big, and damn beautiful eyes. But Sam has a plan, so he sits on the bed and relaxes next to Tom. He wants to gain Tom's trust and he'll take as long as he needs to do so.

Bobby's grilled cheese sandwiches are the best around. Sam enjoys his, and chews with relish as he starts to talk. Something about food, restaurants, and bad coffee. Oh, Tom will know tomorrow what  _ good coffee  _ really means. Sam talks about long nights behind the wheel. Tom listens the whole time. Again and again Sam sees out of the corner of his eye how Tom's gaze alternately slides towards him and the other sandwich. As Sam talks, he realizes how lonely his life is and how easy it is for him to tell Tom all this. 

He is surprised how personal the conversation suddenly becomes. He talks about the young waitress he met once in a diner, hoping to find out more about a couple of unsolved murders. They talked half the night and for the first time in a long while, Sam felt something like longing. She put her number on the bill. It took Sam three days to track down the werewolf responsible for the deaths and kill it. Every night he thought about calling her. After he had burned the dead werewolf, a new message came from a hunter in Chicago. They needed his help. Sam burned the phone number in the fire and drove off.

While Sam was still telling the story, he suddenly noticed a movement beside him.

Tom's hand slides carefully over the sheet and stops next to the plate. Sea-green eyes fixate on Sam as his hand slowly reaches for the sandwich. Sam's voice stops for a moment and he is sure that his heartbeat can be heard for miles.

Without a sound Tom takes the sandwich. Sam has to pull himself together not to burst into cheers. He just goes on, revealing a part of himself that he has never shared with anyone else, but his attention is exclusively focused on the young man next to him, who carefully smells the sandwich and then takes a timid bite.

  
  


Toast, fried bacon, and cheese. That smell won't let go of Tom. It's right in front of him. Sam talks about his life and Tom is fascinated by it. This freedom to go anywhere he wants. Sam is a hunter. That much Tom understood. He's heard about them, knows the stories and the myths about monsters. More than once his master and friends talked about what it would be like to let him fight a werewolf. But the worry of losing their best in a hopeless fight wasn't worth it. 

Sam's hands move when he talks. The long, tanned fingers tell their own story. And Tom understands for once the feeling that grows inside him. Confidence. Slowly, his own hand moves towards the plate. The fear is deep inside of him that suddenly Sam's soft-looking hands will become hard and strike as soon as he reaches for it. But he can't see anything in Sam's face except sincerity, and finally he overcomes his fear and reaches for the plate. He smells the sandwich and bites into it. It's the best thing he's ever eaten. The cheese is soft and the toast is still slightly warm. The bacon, oh man, the bacon makes him almost drool.

Stealthily, he looks once again beside him. And Sam? He just keeps talking. As if nothing happened. As if it's the most normal thing in the world, for him to be sitting next to Sam on a bed. In a house, in a junkyard, in who knows where.

And what if it was? 

What if it really is, and this man next to him really doesn't want to hurt Tom? 

Suddenly he notices the silence in the room. Shocked, he looks at Sam and sees that he is looking at him questioningly. What did he miss? But then Sam beams at him again. "Is it good?" Sam's smile is not of this world.

Tom smiles back, tentatively. "It's great."

"I told you so," Sam replies, satisfied, and leans back against the wall.

He stays with him until Tom has finished his sandwich.


	5. Chapter 5

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

As soon as the first rays of the sun brought light into the small attic room, Tom got up. During the night he had woken up again and again. The silence around him had been too unfamiliar, the bed had been too comfortable, and the room too empty. Before, he had never been alone; either other slaves were in his cell with him or someone kept watch outside the door. He had tried to put the bedding on the floor, but even on the hard floorboards he hadn't found any rest. With the start of the morning, Tom tried to find comfort in routine. He got up, made the bed, and went into the narrow adjoining bathroom. He cleaned himself thoroughly and neatly, as he was always instructed to do. Sam had brought him a pair of used light blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a red flannel shirt. They were too big and the pants a little too long, but he was grateful for the comfortable clothes. He removed the old bandages from his neck and wrists. The right wrist was still swollen and the wound on his neck started to bleed again slightly. Hastily, he wiped the blood away so that nothing would get on his new clothes.

Ashamed, he heard his stomach rumbling. He wondered if he was supposed to wait for Sam to bring him something to eat again, and remained sitting on the bed.

He could hear the dishes clattering downstairs.Tom caught himself questioning his function in this household. Was he expected to prepare the breakfast? He should have been more involved. What if his master - Sam - sees him as lazy and gives him away? Nervously, Tom jumps up. He doesn't want to be sent away. For the first time, he feels something like kindness, and being noticed in a good way. No, he'll make himself indispensable. 

Carefully, he opens his door a crack. Again there's a rattling noise, probably from the kitchen. Slowly he descends the old wooden stairs without making a sound. He knew how to avoid disturbing his master. It had been one of his first lessons.

An old radio plays in the kitchen. For a moment, Tom is four years old again and sees his mother dancing around the kitchen. He swallows hard and the scene changes to the older man with the blue baseball cap standing in front of him with the spatula falling out of his hand.

"Boy, you scared me," exclaims Bobby.

Bowed, Tom looks down to the floor. "Excuse me, Sir ."

"It's all right, I just didn't hear you come in," says Bobby, in a gentle voice. 

Tom carefully approaches the stove. Bobby has bacon and eggs frying in two pans.

"Coffee's on the stove, take a cup."

Tom licks his lips and remembers the delicious taste of it from yesterday morning.

"Sir, please let me help." Tom implores Bobby. How can he be of any use when everything's already been prepared? He would get up much earlier tomorrow and try to remember everything Bobby does to make it exactly the same in the morning from now on. 

Bobby looks at him with understanding. “You can set the table. Plates are over there in the cupboard and cutlery is in the drawer here in the front.“

Immediately Tom starts to do the task assigned to him. He takes two plates and places them opposite each other on the table. Then he takes the cutlery and places them perfectly aligned next to the plate. "Wow, there's a waiter in you."

Tom looks happily at the table.

"It was part of the... training, Sir ."

Bobby swallows sheepishly. "Yeah, right.“

Tom's heart starts beating faster as he hears the front door open and close and footsteps quickly approaching. Involuntarily, his hand tightens up around the back of the chair. But as soon as he realizes that it is Sam who is stomping into the kitchen, he relaxes visibly. Sam wears washed out sweatpants and a black hoodie. His hair is damp from the morning dew and he is sweaty. Apparently he has been up for quite a while. 

"Tell me again what makes a normal person get up in the middle of the night to run around senselessly?" 

Sam winks at Tom before he pats Bobby's tummy.

"To avoid this, old man," Sam laughs and his dimples flash. 

"Call me old again and you can rot in a cell the next time the police pull you over."

Sam goes to the coffee maker and fills a cup.

Then he turns to Tom, who has been following the whole conversation with watchful eyes. It seems so strange to him. Tom is waiting anxiously for the mood to turn dark, waiting to be yelled at or worse. Then Sam is standing right in front of him. Tom holds his breath for a moment, but Sam just pushes the coffee cup into his hand. "Black, isn't it?"

"Pardon?" whispers Tom.

"The coffee, you like it black, don't you?"

Sam fetches another cup for himself and pours milk into his. Sam leans against the counter and takes his first sip.

Tom brings the warm porcelain cup to his lips. He blows into the hot liquid and the strong smell of freshly brewed coffee rises to his nose. Carefully, he takes his first sip and tastes the hot liquid on his tongue. It tastes so intense, strong, dark. Tom doesn't notice how he closes his eyes and is just alone for a moment. When he opens them again, Sam is grinning, dimples popping. His hazel eyes sparkle with joy.

"I told you so. Bobby's coffee wakes dead people, but it's perfect.“

"Don't joke about that, Idjit." 

Bobby turns the stove off and puts the bacon on paper towels. Before he serves the scrambled eggs on the plates he looks at Tom questioningly. "I think there's a plate missing."

Tom looks uncertain at the laid table.

"I'll get it," says Sam as he takes a third plate off the shelf. "I was late."

Tom bites his lower lip. They can't really want him to sit at their table, can they?

"Please, I can't..." he stutters softly, his eyes still on the floor. "It's not right."

"Poppycock," snorts Bobby, and points to one of the empty chairs.

"Sit down. Sam, you too. I don't plan on wasting the whole day. And I'm not a hotel."

"Yes, sir!" both men answer in unison and sit down. 

Bobby serves the scrambled eggs and bacon on the plates. In silence, they begin to eat. Sam notices how Tom's eyes keep glancing around and his uninjured leg bounces nervously under the table. Sam is satisfied to see that Tom is still eating and enjoying his coffee. Stealthily, Sam glances at Tom's wrists. The wounds look a little better, but the neck wound still needs attention. Tom notices his look and tries to hide his hands under the table. 

"Hey." Sam talks to him gently. "Let me look at those wounds again after breakfast, will you? You need a new bandage.“ 

Tom nods and concentrates on his food again.

Bobby looks at both of them, then clears his throat.

"Okay. Tom. Here are the rules."

Immediately, Tom stops eating and looks tensely at Bobby. Sam notices the slight trembling in Tom's fingers.

"You're free to move around. The kitchen is yours, but if you take the last cup of coffee, you make another. I'll show you how it works.

If you want to read something, take it. The bookshelves are full, although you probably won’t understand half of it.

The basement is taboo. Not that I don't trust you, but let's just say there are things that are...private."

Tom nods silently.

"See the wall with the phones?"

Tom follows Bobby's finger with his eyes, and sees the wall with all the different phones and labels underneath.

"Also off limits! Under no circumstances do you go near it, especially the red one with FBI written on it, understand?"

Sam watches Tom shrink down in his chair. Sam tries to shoot Bobby a look, but Bobby keeps talking.

"And the last one. You can stay here as long as you want. No one will know. But as long as you're here, you help me out."

"Of course, Sir ." Tom nods in agreement and seems to want to start right away.

Sam rolls his eyes.

"I saw that, Sam. You know what to do. Explain it all to Tom, I'll clean this place up."

"Please Sir, I can do that." Tom jumps up from the table and picks up the plates. He tries to avoid standing on his injured leg, not letting the pain show on his face.

The other two men look at each other briefly. Then Sam takes the last sip of his coffee and admits defeat. He steps beside Tom and reaches for the drying cloth.

"Come on, you wash, I'll dry, and then I'll take another look at your neck."

Bobby grunts contentedly and goes outside with the leftovers from breakfast. A short time later they hear him calling for Rumsfeld.

Sam takes a wet plate out of Tom's hand, their fingertips touching very briefly. 

Sam dries the plate and gives Tom a sideways look.

"How are you feeling today?"

At first, Tom just shrugs his shoulders, hesitantly replying with a gentle, "Okay."

  
  


Silently, they finish their task, then Sam leads Tom back to his room. He gets fresh bandages and ointment. When he comes back into the room, Tom is sitting on the bed, the shirt, the t-shirt and his pants are neatly folded on the pillow. Sam swallows a moment at the sight of Tom's nearly naked body. Slowly Sam sits down next to him. Tom smells of shampoo and coffee. His alabaster skin is covered with goosebumps, the fine hairs across his chest stand up and his dark little nipples get hard. Sam swallows and feels how his body reacts to Tom's presence. He concentrates on his task. Carefully he palpates around the wound, checking it for hidden infection, cleaning it as best he can. Tom trembles slightly.

"Sorry if my fingers are cold." Sam's fingertips spread the ointment on Tom's sensitive skin and Sam is so close that he can feel Tom's body heat on his own body. The sun is higher in the sky and falls golden on the bed. Sam looks into Tom's face, his shimmering green eyes watching every move Sam makes. Sam pauses for a moment, his fingers resting on Tom's upper body and their gaze becomes lost in each other’s. It is quiet in the room and Sam feels a longing in him that he no longer believed he could experience. He looks at Tom's full lips, which open slightly, and he feels the distance between them diminish. Sam leans forward slightly and the bed creaks. The sudden noise makes him pause and he is shocked as he quickly sits back again.

Sam swallows and concentrates expertly on Tom's wound. He re-bandages it and also re-covers the bondage marks on Tom's wrists. Then he stands up jerkily and rubs his hands on his jeans. "I'm going to change, in case you..." Sam gesticulates helplessly around the room "if you need more time, or I'll meet you on the porch."

Without looking at Tom again, Sam hurries out. Outside in the hallway he closes his eyes briefly and counts to ten.  _ Pull yourself together, damn it.  _ Then he readjusts his jeans in shame and goes into his own room. 

  
  


Tom remains sitting, somewhat dazed, on the bed, which suddenly seems much too big. He can still feel Sam's fingers on his skin. It's only early noon but the many new impressions overwhelm him. Tom is supposed to sit at the table, sharing the same food as his master. NO! SAM! Call him Sam!He is allowed to move freely and even read? Tom is still not sure what Bobby's real job is, but it must be something important when even the FBI calls Bobby. 

Quickly Tom puts the clothes on again and goes out on the porch. Sam is already there, smoking a cigarette. As Tom limps out onto the porch, Sam puts the cigarette out in the small, temporary ashtray and walks with him to the scrap yard.

With arms outstretched, Sam mimes a guide. "Welcome to Singer's Junkyard. Most of the cars here are just for stripping. They're broken down, unroadworthy cars. New cars need to be prepared,“ Sam points to an old Ford Taurus. “First thing you have to do is drain the fluids out. That means oil, coolant, brake and wiper fluid. Then we take out the parts that make the most money. The parts that are in demand. Transmission, headlights, engine parts. Have you ever seen the inside of a car?“ Sam pops the hood of the Ford. Tom is standing next to him, looking around curiously. 

"No, not until now,"Tom admits in his quiet manner as he peers into the open engine.

"I don't understand what's so much fun about working on cars, but I feel comfortable with Bobby out here. And it's a big place, with plenty of room to... make things disappear."

Sam smiles knowingly at Tom, but sees the slight panic in Tom's eyes. 

"I mean monsters, not people." After a brief, embarrassing silence, Sam continues. “Finally, precious metals are removed. Iron, aluminum, and so on. When nothing valuable is left, the car is put in the press, back there, and compacted.“ 

Tom still can't take his eyes off the car. So many components. Parts that mesh together to make the car drive. He is absolutely fascinated.

"Ready? Whenever you can’t stand anymore let me know okay?“ Sam asks him, and Tom nods eagerly.

After two hours spent working in the junkyard, Tom is bathed in sweat, and he feels the burn of muscles he never knew he had. His leg hurts like hell, but he doesn’t care. He's had worse. Oil stains are all over his fingers and arms, but Tom feels so good. He observes attentively whatever Sam or Bobby explains to him, remembers the steps, and executes them intuitively.

"The boy is a natural," praises Bobby. Sam has taken off his hoodie. The thin, white wifebeater is glued to his body, revealing his long, muscular torso, strong arms, and narrow waist. More than once Tom has to pull himself together to not just stare at Sam. Whenever Sam praises him and smiles at him, Tom can't help but smile back.

  
  


"Motherf... !"

While Tom is removing a headlight from a Buick Century, Sam is laying on a creeper under the car. He slides out and jumps up cursing, his face and his white shirt smeared with oil. "This damn screw won't come off!" He spits a mixture of saliva and oil on the floor, and angrily kicks the tire of the car he’s been working on, taking his frustration out on the inanimate object. 

Tom looks at him. Sam's hair stands on end, his hazel eyes sparkle, and oil drips down his chin. The expression on his face makes him look like a small, defiant child. Tom has to bite his tongue to avoid laughing out loud. Sam looks over at him and Tom fearfully drops the wrench. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh." Tom's breathing quickens, every second he expects a fist in his face.

_ "If you give me any trouble, I'll smash your face until it’s black and blue, you'll never eat solid food again."  _ The emerging memory makes Tom's entire body shake. 

He senses Sam's approach and closes his eyes. Sam leans against the edge of the car. "Tom, look at me, please." Sam speaks softly, gently stroking his arm."Please look at me." 

Slowly, Tom opens his eyes. 

"I will never hurt you. No matter what you say, do, or want to do. I will never do anything against your will, and I will never treat you as my slave. This is all new for you and I understand that it scares you, but please believe me, your old life is over. This one,“ Sam waves his arm around the yard, "will be your new beginning. And when you're ready, you'll go your own way, you understand?"

Tom looks into Sam's face and can only see sincerity there.

He nods at Sam. "Okay." 

"Now look at me again." 

Tom looks at Sam again, the oil has covered his entire shirt in a smudgy color. Sam starts smiling, his dimples denting his cheeks, and before Tom knows it, Sam starts laughing. Sam laughs deeply and loudly over his own mess and at some point Tom can’t hold it in anymore. Sam just looks too funny. Tom grins at him and loses himself in Sam's laughter. "Maybe I should do the next oil change," Tom suggests.

"Oh hello sarcasm," teases Sam, and takes some oil with his index finger and dabs it onto Tom's nose. "Suits you." Sam winks and takes off his oil-soaked wife-beater. Tom gasps briefly at the sight of Sam's naked torso. He then refocuses on the car in front of him.

  
  
  


In the evening, the three of them sit on the porch. Tom feels every muscle in his body aching, but never before has he felt so good. Never before has he felt so valued. 

Bobby pats Rumsfeld's head. Each of them has a cold beer in their hand. Sam blows the last smoke of his cigarette into the air, ignoring Bobby's comment about how he can do without breathing intake stale air. 

"Good work, boys. I have to look up something for a friend." Bobby gets up and goes inside, the dog slowly trotting along by his side.

"You were really good. You have a natural understanding of cars." Sam looks approvingly at Tom, who nervously peels at the label on the bottle.

In silence, they look at the scrapyard that lies ahead. The beer is crisp, cold, and delicious. After finishing their bottles, Sam hands Tom one more, but no more, as Tom had never tasted alcohol before now. Tom feels mixed up when it comes to Sam.

Sam never restricts him, never punishes him, he is patient and gentle. But then Sam seems so reserved, so sad, and closed off. The strange thing is Tom kinda gets Sam. He understands him. Something breaks open in Tom. There is a feeling deep inside him that wants to come to the surface, like air bubbles in a lake. He takes another sip of the beer when Sam continues. 

"I don't think I've ever felt about cars in my whole life, the way you felt about them in one day. I mean I drive those things, I know how they work, but the rest," Sam shrugs and takes a sip from his bottle. 

Wind comes up and the wind chimes above them start to sound. Tom licks his lips.

"All parts have a purpose, a function. You just have to get it, put it together right, and the car will drive." 

Sam looks at him with wide eyes, but he remains silent. 

For half an hour they sit together in silence. They drink their beer. 

"Here's to a good day, Tom." Sam lifts his beer and empties the bottle.

He doesn't answer at first, stares into the night and makes a decision.

"My name is Dean."


	6. Chapter 6

[](https://imgbb.com/)

"We identified the nest two weeks ago, weren't sure at first. But we're assuming one leader and five followers." 

Sam holds the phone close to his ear to ignore the loud noises of the trash compactor.

"Sam, we could really use your help. We can wait a few more days if you need it, but you know we wouldn’t ask..."

Sam's free hand goes through his hair. "What about Isaac or Tamara? I'm sure they can help you."

"Sam, are you sure you're okay? You've been refusing to help for weeks."

Sam's jawbone is jumping angrily before answering. "I'm not refusing Ellen, I have my own work to do. Call them both, I'll check in later." Sam finishes the call and puts the phone in his pocket.

He feels guilty, he doesn't usually let other hunters down. He knows they only call him when they really need him. No one volunteers to work with the ´Grumpy Giant`, as he’s heard others referred to him. 

"Is everything okay?" Dean steps up beside him and takes off his work gloves. Sam hands him a bottle of water, which he happily accepts.

"Yeah, everything's fine." Sam smiles at Dean. 

_"My name is Dean."_

Sam can't believe it's only been four weeks since Dean opened up. Everything seems so familiar. Like they've known each other their whole lives.

And yet both led completely different lives before fate brought them together.

Dean can't really remember his parents, not even his last name. There are only brief images that plays in his mind, warm feelings, and faded memories. He can remember a fire and the night that changed everything. All memories from that night on are cold, dark, and cruel.

He shared some with Sam. In the evening, after work, they'd sit together, staring at the junkyard and opening up to each other under the cover of darkness. Every time Sam feels the urge to drive off, to search for those responsible for abusing Dean and to beat the last spark of life out of them. How can you treat a child like this? How can you treat a living being this way? What gives someone the right to say, you have no family, no income, from now on you must serve as a slave? 

Sam will not change the entire world, but he has changed one young man's world. And maybe, a little bit of his own. 

"How's your leg?" 

Dean shrugs. "Barely feel the wound."And indeed, Dean's wounds have healed nicely in the past three weeks, leaving a scar on his neck and his left hand. They'll fade over time, just like all of the others on his body. 

Two weeks ago Sam had to admit to himself that the wounds had healed so well that there was no reason to bandage them, even though Sam misses this morning ritual while sitting on Dean's bed. He misses feeling Dean's delicate skin under his fingers. 

And it almost seemed to Sam that Dean was stalling, too. But Sam would never take advantage of Dean's situation. Too many people have manipulated, abused, and used Dean in his life. Sam will never be one of them. He's gonna give Dean the freedom he deserves.

The sun is sinking down past the horizon, bathing the junkyard in a riotous play of colors.

Sam shakes himself like he's trying to shed his thoughts.

"You know what, let's not sit on the porch today. Wait here."

A few minutes later, he shows up with a little green cooler and they walk together through the rows of cars piled around them. At the end of the row are“the classics“, as Bobby calls them. Older cars, too good to be scrapped, but too bad to be replaced. Sam chooses an old Ford pickup. They climb into the bed of the truck and lean against the cab. He can still easily see the blue paint through the rust and dirt.

Sam opens the cooler and takes out a beer for Dean and one for himself. He unscrews the cap and they clink their bottles together.

They look up into the sky and see how it is getting darker and darker, in the distance the moon is already visible.

"I used to hide out here when I was a kid. When my father was here and he and Bobby fought, I'd run away and hide in one of the big trucks." Sam remembers.

Dean keeps looking up at the sky when he responds. "What were they fighting about?"

"Everything, actually. About jobs, about guns, about me." Sam bites his lower lip.

"Why were they fighting about you?"

Sam hesitates a moment before answering.

"Bobby wanted me to stay with him. Dad and me... 

let's just say it hasn't always worked out. I told you my mother died when I was a baby, and my father was driven by revenge. 

He was restless, always driven by the need to hunt down and destroy every monster, so that it could not hurt anyone else. It was his life's work. Unfortunately, there was a baby and later a boy who had to be taken care of. I was always swinging between Bobby, Pastor Jim, and Ellen. She's a hunter too, but her homebase is a roadhouse." Sam takes a long sip. "And so I grew up. Here, church, pub, or in my father's car. Every time I got settled in, when I started to take root, I'd hear my father's Sierra Grande from afar and know it was time to go again. Until I was seventeen and one day the car stopped coming..." Sam's voice vibrates with sadness. "Bobby's always been like a second father to me and... no matter how mad or moody I got, he was always there. And you know what? Despite the fights me and my dad had and the nights where I hated him so much, I miss him. So, I want to be like him. Saving as many people as I can and killing these damn monsters.“

Sam pulls up his knees and puts his forearms on them. He reminisces about a childhood that was just lonely, brief, too few moments of affection was just for a short time. And yet when he looks over at Dean, he realizes how lucky he was. How much worse it could have been. 

"Do you have a memory of her?"

"Huh?" Sam is stunned by the question.

"Your mother, do you have a memory?"

"No," Sam replies. "There are a few photos, but I look at them and all I see is a strange woman. I wish there was something there, but there's nothing. No feeling. What about you?"

Dean thinks for a moment, then slides down the back of the cab, to lie on the bed completely flat. He puts his arms behind his head and closes his eyes.

"Sometimes I imagine I can hear her laughter. There are fuzzy memories, the smell of fresh apple pie. There's..." Dean presses his lips together.

"You don't have to, Dean." Sam can't take his eyes off Dean. It's almost dark outside, but the moon is shining so brightly that he can clearly see Dean's outline. 

Dean opens his eyes again and looks up.

"There's this calendar on the kitchen wall. I can't remember my last name, but that damn calendar won't get out of my head. Every month I climbed up on the kitchen chair and was allowed to turn the page.

It had pictures of different places. And that month it showed the Grand Canyon. It looked so huge in the picture, and I told my mom that I wanted to go there. Ma promised we would go. That I could see it and that I would be overwhelmed. 

And I can't get that image out of my head." Dean's voice becomes fragile. 

"You know, in the early years, when I was a child, the authorities were still looking out for you. That the new family treats you well. That they don't beat you, or worse. Only my owners always knew in advance when these checks in were coming, and so they were always prepared.“ Dean sighs. “Whenever things got bad, when they... I thought about this Grand Canyon and that if I can just stand it a little bit longer, I will see it one day. Stupid, right?" Dean's features get hard, but his eyes are wet with tears.

"No, it's not." Sam reacts without thinking and the back of his hand brushes Dean's cheek. "You survived. And I promise you, one day you will see the Grand Canyon."

They look at each other, and Sam painfully realizes how much he cares for Dean. How much he desires him. And that he never allowed himself to give in. 

  
  
  


The next morning begins like every other day for Dean, with a thorough shower. He gets dressed and hurries into the kitchen. The table is quickly set. Coffee is percolating and a good portion of bacon is floating in the fat in the pan. If it was up to Dean, there would probably be just bacon and coffee every morning. But Sam insists on greens, so he slices up a few tomatoes and cucumbers. After they have breakfast, he takes care of the dishes, and even though Bobby keeps pointing out that two young men live under his roof, Dean insists on the work and Sam rarely speaks back.

After that, Bobby either takes care of other hunters - and yes, now Dean also knows what the phones are for - or he helps out with the cars. But mostly it's just him and Sam. Dean finds out that Sam gets calls from time to time. Requests from other hunters for support, but Sam refuses. Dean's stomach flips with worry every time, yet he feels a little guilty that Sam keeps canceling because of him.

The thought of not having Sam in his life scares Dean. He had never met a master like him before, and even though Sam insists that they are equal, it will never be the same for Dean. Sam has saved him, he has given his life meaning and Dean would do anything for Sam. 

The first car of the day is ready and Dean looks happily over to Sam.

But Sam somehow seems different today, more reserved. Last night, there was this moment, this feeling in Dean, when they both looked at each other. That feeling that burned like a little fire over Dean's skin, and that he thought he could see it in Sam's eyes as well. A feeling, that Dean couldn't put a name to but wanted to explore further, and Sam was the key. Dean fished a cold bottle of water out of the cooler and handed it to Sam. He touched Sam's forearm and the fire burned inside him, reaching down to his abdomen. Sam winces, but grabs the bottle. "What about you?" Dean asks anxiously.

"Nothing, I'm just... I've never been in one place for so long. It probably just makes me nervous."

"Can I help you?" Dean looks at Sam hopefully. Sam stares back for a second. His beautiful hazel eyes get bigger and he seems to be thinking about something. 

Suddenly he turns away and runs his hand through his long hair.

"I-... I just need to let off some steam. Hey, you know what? What do you think about target practice?"

"What?"

"Exactly! Good idea!" Sam says more to himself that to Dean and runs back into the house.

  
  


"Sam I've never done this before. I don't know how." Dean babbles nervously as Sam walks toward him with the shotgun. 

"That's why I'm going to show you," Sam laughs and turns left to the old cars. 

As they stop on a slightly wider area, Sam stops and turns around.

"Dean, I'm not going to force you to do anything, and if you prefer to just watch it's okay, but you have to learn to defend yourself. And who knows, maybe you will become a hunter one day," Sam winks at him. Then he puts the bullets on the ground and shows Dean the rifle. He explains to him how to load and unload the gun. 

"The important thing is always to have a secure footing. The center of the body is different for every person, so you have to find your own center. The recoil of a gun is usually underestimated.“

"Do you really think I could become a hunter?" Dean asks, hopefully.

Sam hesitates with the answer. "Why would you want that?"

Dean shrugs. _So I can go with you._

Sam reluctantly turns away from Dean.

"You aim for the target, then you breathe easy, holding your breath, tensing your torso.“ Sam's upper body relaxes down before a loud gunshot echoes through the corridor of the junkyard and shatters the window of an old Honda Civic. Dean starts at the loud bang. Memories of the night he met Sam come back to him. Sam looks at the tension in Dean's eyes and approaches him, worried.

"Hey Dean, hey sorry man, I'm such an idiot.“

"No, it's okay, I was just surprised."

"You sure?"

Dean nods, "I'm positive."

"Would you like to try it?"

"What, right now?"

"Sure." Sam refills the chamber of the gun, then shoves it into Dean's hand.“I have a feeling you’re a natural at this.“

Dean looks at the gun in his hand unsteadily, then he feels Sam's body behind him.

He raises the gun like he saw Sam do. 

Sam's hands cover Dean's, adjusting the grip around the gun. Dean feels Sam's breath on his neck and the fine hairs there. "Focus." Sam whispers in his ear, and Dean has no idea how to do that anymore.

"See that red Chrysler? Just aim for the back window." Sam grabs Dean's hips, gently positions him, then his hands slide back around Dean's waist, across his back, and up Dean's arms. 

"The target and the sight must match. Close one eye and concentrate on your breathing.“ Sam lets go of Dean's hands, but he stays very close to his ear. Dean really tries to concentrate, but his cock has decided right now to react to Sam's presence. "When you're ready, hold your breath, squeeze your finger and pull the trigger.“ Sam moves back a little and immediately, Dean misses the physical contact. But he doesn't want to disappoint Sam, so he focuses on the rear window through his gun sight, holds his breath and shoots. The rear window splinters into a thousand pieces, and Dean is almost thrown backwards, but Sam is there and catches him.

"I got you." Sam beams at him, and Dean is on a roll, too. The powerful recoil, the shattering of the windshield, he feels euphoric.

"See, I told you you were a natural. Again?"

Dean smiles and nods.

"Okay cowboy, back there, black caddy, passenger side.“

Dean gets into position again, Sam is very close at first. Dean concentrates and a short time later there is a shot, and then the tinny metal of the bullet hitting the door can be heard.

"Too low?" Dean curses, angrily.

"You slipped down at the last moment, it happens.“ Sam reloads."You pick one." 

Dean's gaze wanders. "The green one in the back, just for color." Dean snorts, and pulls up. Sam laughs out loud, but the next moment the windshield bursts, and Sam whistles appreciatively.

"Well done, I'm impressed."

"Well, that wasn't so hard," Dean says, embarrassed.

"Oh,we got a big mouth already?" scoffs Sam and looks around.

"Well, El Mariachi. The black one there, left-hand side mirror, let's see what you got."

Confidently, Dean steps forward and starts again. He secures his stance and slows his breathing. His eye follows the sight and centers the target. The mirror reflects the sun and Dean has to refocus. His gaze wanders over the black paint on the body of the car. In some places the rust seems to show through, but stubbornly the car defies the conditions. Among all the cars parked here, this one seems to rebel against the rust and decay. Dean pauses. This car exudes pride and stubbornness. Strength and courage. Dean puts the gun down. "Dean, what's wrong?" Sam asks, but Dean doesn't listen. He walks slowly toward the Chevy. It's like it's calling out to him. Dean strokes the jet-black paint. The tires are flat, verdigris is eating through the window washers. The grill is cracked. But she's beautiful.

"You like it?" 

"She's perfect."

"She?" Sam asks mockingly, perhaps just a teensy bit jealous.

Dean opens the hood and his mind immediately starts to whirl. The spark plugs have to be replaced, the transmission is shot.

"Should I leave you two alone?"

Startled, Dean whips around. "I'm sorry."

Sam raises his hands defensively. "Hey, it's okay. There's something about that car, I get that, but let's face it, this car's seen better days.

"They are just scars."

"What?"

"Look at her. Yeah, the paint is scratched,and she's probably gonna take a lot of time and patience, but look at her. It doesn't deserve to be discarded, it doesn't deserve to be thrown away. If you give it time, it could really be something."

And suddenly Sam understands. "She's perfect just the way she is, Dean. She just needs a little help." They look at each other from across the car, Dean on the driver's side, Sam on the passenger side, like it seems it should be.

"So, you wanna go for a ride?" Sam opens the passenger door and snakes his long body inside.

The seats are a full-length front bench. The driver's door creaks when it opens and then Dean sits down next to him. Sam admires the dashboard as Dean sweeps his hands across the thin, big steering wheel. The hood of the car is so long that Dean can hardly see the end. 

"Well, I don't want to drive it into a parking garage," Sam snorts.

"It belongs on the street, not in a garage," Dean pouts. 

"Oh, I'm sorry." 

Dean shyly looks at him from the corner of his right eye. The car smells a little of moisture, but in his mind he can see it. The freedom of driving, the window rolled down, the wind in his hair.He looks at Sam beside him. For the first time in twenty years, since the day they tore him out of his home with only a small suitcase and Mr. Teddy in his arms, Dean feels something like happiness, like home. 

Sam looks over at him. "I'll talk to Bobby. I want it to be your car, Dean. I want mmf...“

Dean acts out of reflex, not knowing what is happening to him, but he closes the distance to Sam and presses his lips against Sam's. He feels Sam's soft lips and nibbles a bit on his bottom lip, then he increases the pressure. He wants to taste Sam, wants to feel his body heat and press himself even closer. For a moment Sam is frozen,but suddenly he grasps Dean's face with both hands and kisses back, opening his mouth so that Dean's tongue slides in and it is warm, sweet, and perfect. Dean whimpers against Sam's open mouth, he feels his dick harden and the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, he feels, God he feels…

Then Sam's arms push him gently away.

And Sam looks at him, startled. "I'm sorry, Dean. I shouldn't have... Please forgive me." Sam pulls away from Dean's arms and opens the passenger door. Air rushes into the warmed-up car and Sam gets out. He grabs the gun and the ammo and makes quick strides toward the house.

Dean doesn't know how to feel. One minute he was happy, and now he feels like he's destroyed everything. He shouldn't have kissed Sam. But he couldn’t keep his feelings for Sam inside him any longer. He drops back into the seat and he looks out over the steering wheel. "What have I done?"

He stays in the seat for several minutes, then he gets out. He pats the hood again and walks slowly back to the house.

Sam is nowhere to be seen, but Bobby's eyes betray that whatever he discussed with Sam, he is not happy. And Dean panics. What if Sam hands him over to the authorities? What if Sam hates him?

Then he hears footsteps on the stairs and Sam comes down with a backpack slung over his shoulder.

Dean looks at him, questioningly.

"Some hunters need me in Wyoming. It seems serious and I have to help them.

It'll only be a few days."

"You're going away?"

Sam chews his bottom lip and Dean tastes their kiss on his own mouth. "Dean, I have to."

"But what about me?"

"I talked to Bobby. You can take care of the Chevy. It's yours. I'll cover all expenses for parts.“

"No, Sam, please.“

Dean sounds like he's begging, but he doesn’t care. Sam can't leave. Not now. Not just like that. What's he gonna do without him? 

"Dean, I'm a hunter. This is my job, okay?"

"Then take me with you."

"NO!" Sam raises his voice for the first time and it hits Dean hard.

"Dean I'm sorry, I... I need some time alone, okay? I'll be back. I promise."

The little voice comes back to Dean's head. The voice that got him through it all, and Dean lifts his head, looks Sam in the eye.

"If you have to go, I guess you have to go."

And Sam goes. 


	7. Chapter 7

[](https://imgbb.com/)

The first day after Sam left, Dean was restless.

He couldn't sleep. Again and again he listens into the stillness of the night after the Charger rumbled away. Hoping that Sam would change his mind. What's Dean gonna do alone? What's his job, who's he gonna serve? With the first ray of sunshine he stands in the shower, the water too hot, but Dean longs for the pain. What has he done? He pissed Sam off and now he's gone. Deep in his thoughts, he's covering for three people. He serves breakfast to Bobby, but Dean just pokes at his own food.

"Dean, give him time," Bobby says gently.

Bobby means well, but he has no idea. Dean _needs_ Sam.

They're pulling the Impala out of the back of the junkyard, pulling it forward so Dean can start working on it. Bobby's admiring the car, though Dean's got a lot of work to do. 

Still, Dean's gaze goes towards the driveway, hoping to see Sam's car.

_I have to hold on. I just have to hold on for a few days. I'll show him that I can do it. I'll prove it to him._

  
  


On the third day, Dean believes he's made it through the worst of it. He's got a new daily routine, and he's motivated. He helps Bobby with two cars in the morning,and at noon he takes care of the Impala. Bobby has ordered new tires, Dean removes the seats and the inner lining of the car doors so that they are not damaged during the upcoming welding work. In the evening, he reads instruction manuals about tutorials on the condition of the car, tries to understand how it is built, which parts it needs.

In the night, he steps to the window, thinking of Sam, and hopes that Sam will be proud of him.

  
  


On the sixth day, Dean welds the substructure. There are individual nuts and bolts in countless labelled bags. Dean has documented exactly where he took which part from. The car lies in front of him in all its parts. In the evening, he and Bobby sit outside on the porch. "Does he hate me, Bobby?" Dean asks him.

At first, Bobby looks at Dean in surprise. Then he weighs his response.

"No, Dean, not at all. On the contrary, he cares for you very much."

"Then why did he leave?" 

Bobby takes off his baseball cap and strokes his hair. "You got to understand something, Dean. Sam didn't leave for _you_ . He left for _himself_."

Dean tries to understand, but the words don't make sense. "I shouldn't have kissed him. He obviously doesn't want me."

"Boy, don't ask me stuff like that. Do I look like Dr. Ruth to you?" hisses Bobby.

Dean flinches and slumps his shoulders.

"Sorry, Dean. I'm no good at this. Look, Sam's... Sam's always been all alone. Never had consistency in his life or friends. He’s like a lone wolf, always on the run. Me, Ellen and Pastor Jim, we tried, but Sam never experienced feeling empathy. Someone grounding him, looking out for him. Never in my life have I seen Sam have so much compassion, pay attention to someone like he has towards you. So, believe me when I say, he really likes you, okay? But Sam is afraid that you only have these "feelings" for him because you..."

"Because I what, Bobby? Tell me, please tell me what to change. I'll do it."

"That's the point, Dean. I don't want you to do it for _Sam_ . You do it because _you_ want to. And I understand how hard that is for you. Believe me, I really do. I'll help you in any way I can, but you gotta want it for yourself. If you really... if you really wanna change things, then learn to believe in yourself, Dean...because I think you got a hell of a lot in you."

  
  


On the seventh day, Dean enjoys bacon for the first time again. 

  
  


On the twelfth day, all the welds are sealed. Dean knocks out some dents on the doors and grinds down the rust. He still looks down along the paved road. Bobby explains what he's doing. In the evenings, they talk about monsters and how to fight them. Dean hopes Sam is okay.

  
  


On the 16th day, Dean dismantles the drive train. He meticulously cleans every area, testing the mechanisms. He asks Bobby if Sam's okay, Bobby says he is.

  
  


On the twentieth day, they work together on the brake cylinders, check the safety of the pads and discs. Bobby offers Dean a paid position as Bobby's employee.

Dean accepts. In the middle of the night, Dean is horrified to realize he hasn't thought about Sam all day.

  
  


On the twenty-eighth day, Dean finishes repairing three cars. Bobby is proud of him, and Dean is happy.

  
  


On the fortieth day, Dean grouts every little flaw in the Impala. It's idle, exhausting and Dean is not happy. The compound is too thick, not even, not good enough. Dean walks through the rows of old cars. He runs and runs, thinking back to the day Sam taught him how to shoot. He bangs his fist against a car door. Then another and another. He keeps going until he finds a wrench on the ground - Carelessly left behind, worthless, useless. He bangs it on a car window until the glass shatters. And keeps on hitting the sheet metal of the hood. Again and again, the heavy wrench crushes against the sheet metal, against the rage, there is so much rage in Dean. Against Sam, because he doesn't come back, against his parents, because they didn't come back either, against the men who held him down, who kept his mouth shut and he couldn't scream. But now he can scream, now he can roar and Dean screams, deep from his soul. Tears run hot over his cheeks and he keeps on hitting until the metal finally gives way under him and he screams until two strong arms hold him down. Bobby doesn't let go of him, just hangs on tight to him until he collapses and no more noise comes out of his sore throat. 

  
  


On the forty-second day, Bobby takes a picture of him for Dean's driver's license. Dean teases him that he doesn't need it because he can't drive. 

  
  
  


On the forty-third day Bobby teaches him how to drive.

  
  
  


On the forty-fifth day, Bobby asks what to write on Dean's ID. Which last name Dean wants to choose. Dean’s thought about it and lets Bobby know. Bobby shakes his head and calls Dean an Idjit, but gets to work. 

  
  
  


On the forty-ninth day Dean looks at the Chevrolet Impala, the paint is new and pitch black. Dean paid for the paint himself from his first wage. Bobby proudly presents him the bundle of banknotes. Dean stares stunned at the money. His own money, that he earned himself. He gives part of it back to Bobby even as he protests. "Rent and food," Dean explains. Dean hides part of the money in his pillow.

  
  
  


On the fifty-second day, all rubber seals are renewed, the upholstery is washed and there is no trace of verdigris. Dean and Bobby sit down on the tan front bench and Dean starts the engine. The rattle of the V8 engine gives them goose bumps and Dean is beaming. He looks proudly over to Bobby, who pats him on the shoulder in admiration. The little voice in Dean wishes that Sam was with him to share this moment.

  
  


On the fifty-ninth day, Bobby hands him his driver's license, a credit card, and the key to Bobby's house.

  
  


On the sixtieth day, Dean drives off.

  
  
  
  


The rain crashes loudly against the windows of the Roadhouse. The last paying customer leaves the bar, swearing, and with his collar up. Sam looks up briefly from his laptop as the guy opens the door, and a cold wind blows through the room. Then his gaze wanders down again, over newspaper headlines and unusual events.

A cup of hot coffee is placed in front of him.

Ellen sits down opposite him and Sam realizes that she obviously wants to talk.

"Thanks for the coffee," he says and reaches for the warm cup.

"You look like you need it." Ellen looks at him with understanding eyes. 

Sam massages his neck with his free hand and suppresses a yawn. 

"I'm fine." 

"Yeah, sure" she replies, mockingly.

Sam pulls a face. "What?"

"Sam, listen, I just care, okay? First, we don't hear from you for weeks, then suddenly you come to us in the middle of the night and then you're picking apart a vampire nest, almost single-handedly. You’ve been here for five weeks now, always looking for a new job or joining other hunters."

"That's my job, Ellen."

"You aren't giving yourself a chance to rest, Sam! Look at yourself, you're overtired. You have to let your body rest. Jesus. It's almost like you're running from something or someone."

_From myself._

"Ellen, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need a chaperone. I'm doing fine on my own.“

_Liar, Liar._

"Did you talk to Bobby?"

"No, why?" Sam asks, and his voice is an octave too high and his heart beats faster.

_Is something wrong with Dean?_

"I just thought you two were usually so close."

Sam's hand tightens around his coffee mug. How many times has he called Bobby in the last weeks? Every day at first.

_Just tell me how he's doing, does he need anything? How are his wounds?_

Bobby kept him in the loop, no accusations coming out of his lips.

Unlike the night he left in a hurry. 

_Bobby yelled at him, “You can't just leave him like that. Sam, he needs you.“_

_“No, Bobby, he doesn't need me. He's better off without me. Believe me, I'm not good for him.“_

_"You're an idiot, Sam Winchester, just like your father!“_

_"Don't you ever,_ ever _compare me to my father again!“_

_“I'm sorry, Sam.“_

_“Bobby, I like Dean... ...I like him … more than I'm allowed to feel about him.“_

_“I see.“_

_“He's depending on me, Bobby. He'd do anything for me. He would even pretend to love me…“_

_"Boy, why don't you believe you deserve to be loved?"_

_"It's not love if it comes from dependence, Bobby. And because I care about him... because I really care about him, I have to go. I want him to be free. I want him to be himself for once, to have the choice to become the man he deserves to become."_

_Bobby nods. “I'll take care of him, Sam.“_

_“Thank you, Bobby.“_

  
  
  


Ash appears behind Ellen and gestures for Sam to follow him. Sam nods at Ellen briefly, then gets up and goes with Ash to his "command center".

"What do you have for me?" asks Sam, and turns his nose up at Ash's "organized chaos".

Ash hands him a pink post-it sticker with two names and addresses.

"Iowa, are you sure?" asks Sam with a frown.

"Hey, you ask the best one here, if I tell you these are the assholes, these are the assholes, okay?"

"Fine."

"Will you finally tell me why they're assholes?"

"No."

"Great."

"Anything else I should know?"

"Both have criminal records. For destruction of property and malicious mischief."

"Malicious mischief?

Ash nervously scratches his neck. "That's what they call it when they, the slaves, get hurt.

Sam's jaws are 'Thank you comma Ash' with rage.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"It's 'Thank you, Ash'." Ash looks at him defiantly.

"Thanks, Ash," answers Sam in exaggerated kindness.

"And may I buy you a whiskey, Ash." Ash waggles his eyebrows.

"Don't overdo it."

"Fine."

  
  


In the seven hours he spends on US77 and I-80, Sam thinks a lot how to do the next target. He knows many types of torture, ways to make a man suffer horrendously before eventual death.

All the more surprised at himself he is when he stabs the first bastard without any words. Covering up his tracks takes longer than the time it takes for the blood to flow from the bastard's veins. Sam does not even feel satisfaction. The second one doesn't live far away. Way too easy, way too complacent. He knows the law on his side. But Sam is not the law, and he craps on "gray areas of legality." 

The second one is more complicated. He talks too much. Offering Sam money, slaves, whores, more money. Begs for his life. Sam asks him if it ever slowed him down or stopped him when his slaves begged him to stop. That's when the guy realizes that nothing will save him tonight. 

In the modest shower of the Motel 6, Sam washes off the last vestiges of his actions. He watches the man's blood run down the drain. With nothing left of the scum, Sam wonders when it will be his own blood that someone will wash off their fingers.

Outside the motel door he lights a cigarette. He blows smoke into the starlit night. He pulls out his phone and dials Bobby's number. The red phone he knows Dean will never pick up. 

"Willis, FBI." 

"Hey Bobby, it's me."

Sam can literally hear Bobby looking around for Dean. 

"Sam, you okay?"

"I found them, Bobby."

"And?"

"Took care of it."

"Good."

"How's he doing?"

Bobby sighs softly. "He's fine, Sam, Really. He's making progress. Jesus, you should see the work he's done on the car. He's really gifted."

Sam takes a big drag off the cigarette.

"Do you think I should, do you think I can come over?"

Bobby doesn't answer.

"Yeah, it was stupid of me. Sorry."

"Sam, you're always welcome. But you said it yourself that you need time. And Dean, he needs time too. He's fine."

Something in Bobby's voice sounds different than usual. "Bobby, what are you hiding?"

"Sam."

"Bobby, tell me, or I'm leaving tonight."

"He's gone."

Sam gets cold in his stomach, everything contracts.

"What do you mean gone?"

"Look, boy, the car's ready, Dean's got an ID, and he needed to be on his own. He wanted to see the world. He, Sam -- He's ready."

"You should have called me."

"And why would I do that?“ Bobby asks annoyingly . “Sam, _you_ wanted him to be independent, and for three weeks, Ellen's the only way I know you're alive, because you can't make one damn phone call. _You_ walked away, Sam, and I accepted it. Don't blame me now." 

"Where did he go?" 

"Does it matter?"

"Fuck you."

Sam hangs up and trudges away angrily.

It was exactly what he wanted, wasn't it? Dean was finally free. His own man. Free as a bird. He only wanted what was best for Dean. He wanted Dean to be happy.

Sam flips the cigarette stub into the little puddle in front of him. He's done the right thing here. 

Then why is there such emptiness in him?


	8. Chapter 8

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

Slowly, the Charger drives up the long, gravel driveway to Bobby's junkyard. The bigger the outline of the blue, wooden house gets, the more nervous Sam gets. It's been four months since he hastily left the house that has always been like a second home to him. He hasn't announced himself, because he's worried that Bobby doesn't want to see him, as his last call was six weeks ago. A minor question of a superficial case, when the actual reason for the call was casually dropped into the conversation

Dean was still gone. And even though it reassured Sam that Bobby apparently still had contact with him, it didn't help against the dull feeling deep inside him.

The naked truth Sam finally realized, when he was half drunk in a bar just looking for some distraction, letting off steam and feeling someone. Someone without green eyes and the most beautiful smile in the world. He found _him_ quickly and they got right down to business until Sam pushed the man away, and had to admit to himself that the taste in his mouth paled in comparison to the one kiss he was allowed to share with Dean. Sam went to his room alone that night and all the other nights that followed. Sam felt, for the first time in a very long time, feelings that he had tried to repress, something he never wanted to feel again. Loneliness. 

Sam misses Bobby. And _fuck_ , he misses Dean.

  
  


Bobby steps out on the porch, nervously adjusting his cap as Sam parks his car in front of the house. 

As Sam gets out and stretches his long limbs, while they look at each other in silence for a moment. Sam is trying to hide his limp. The last hunt had not gone well. Sixteen stitches and a cursing Ellen were finally the ass-kick Sam needed to drive back here. 

Sam stops at the bottom of the stairs and looks, unsteadily, up at Bobby .

"Hey Bobby," he smiles hesitantly at the older man.

Bobby looks down at him briefly from the top step before he replies. "Shut your mouth and get the hell up here."

Sam takes the four steps, despite the pain, in two steps and hugs Bobby. For a moment he is the seventeen-year-old boy, knowing that his father will never again pick him up .

Bobby walks with him into the kitchen and fishes out two beers from the fridge. 

"How long do you plan to stay?“ Bobby wants to know.

"How long may I?" Sam responds.

"That remains to be seen."

Sam gives him a questioning look. He takes a sip of the cold beer as his eyes fall on the fridge and the card that's hanging there. Sam slowly moves closer and looks at the picture on the postcard. It shows the Grand Canyon. Sam closes his eyes for a moment and tries to fight against the burning feeling of loss. He strokes the postcard with his finger. "I'm happy for him", he says, trying to convince himself. 

"Bullshit."

Irritated, Sam looks back at Bobby. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me Sam."

"Bobby, you have no idea.“ Sam tries to justify himself.

"Oh Boy, I have and don't give me that "this is for Dean's own good" crap.“ Bobby is visibly annoyed as his fingers form quotes in the air.

"He should..." Sam tries again.

"This right here, right now isn't just about Dean, Sam. You were running from yourself. You couldn't stand that suddenly there's someone who accepts you. The way you always leave when it's too much for you.“

"Bobby, I'm a 35-year-old hunter. I'm moody, I'm aggressive, I have nothing to give him. And he … “ Sam runs shaking fingers through his long hair, “He doesn't feel anything for me Bobby, all he saw in me was his _new master_ , he wanted to please me because he felt he _had_ to. How can I accept that of anybody?" Sam's voice becomes fragile, he seems torn up inside. It was never important, what he wanted, so why change now? It was a mistake to come here.

"Sam, look at me.“ Bobby's voice sounds so sympathetic that Sam's eyes are drawn to him. "Love means doing good to another. It _means_ wanting to please the other. Just like you want him to be happy, has it ever occurred to you that he might want the same for you? Is it really so hard for you to see that there could be someone out there who likes you for who you are? And that all you have to do, is _let_ him?“ 

Sam's about to answer, when from a distance the growl of a V8 engine sounds. Sam stares at Bobby with big eyes and Bobby nervously chews his lower lip.

"In that regard... Dean is back."

Sam's heart becomes lodged in his throat. 

"Since when?"

Bobby sighs. "Since three weeks ago. He works for me now permanently."

Sam steps to the window and sees the black Impala approaching in the distance .

"I should go."

"Then you're really stupid." Bobby steps beside him. "Why do you think he _really_ came back? Because of me? Maybe, but he's still hoping, one day, you'd come back.“ Bobby's looking at Sam out of the corner off his eye. “Sam, he's waiting for you, and I swear to God if you don't go out there and talk to him right now, I will never pick up the phone again if you call.“

  
  


Sam steps out onto the porch, looking down at the black, shining beauty stopping in front of him. The sun shines on the windshield so that Sam only sees Dean's outline. 

The engine is still running, like Dean has not made up his mind if he wants to stop the car. Sam can't blame him. Sam is impressed with the car and listens to the clean, rich sound. The chrome and the black paint shining in the sun. Nothing remains of that broken-down, dented car Dean discovered months ago. Like a hidden jewel, Dean immediately recognized its inner beauty. Almost in awe, Sam descends the steps until he stands in front of the incredibly long hood of the Chevrolet. There is not a dent to be seen. Eventually Dean turns off the engine and opens the creaking door. If Sam was surprised at the sight of the Impala, then it is no comparison to the man getting out of the car. 

Dean's changed too. His body is impressive, muscles fill out his white t-shirt that shows from under his black, leather jacket. The blue jeans fit tight and define his strong, slightly bowed legs. 

Dean slams the door and takes off his sunglasses. 

Slowly, they walk towards each other. Sam is amazed at how tall Dean has become until he realizes that Dean is standing up proudly in front of him. His back is straight, his shoulders back, only the bow legs remind him of the shy boy Sam saved months ago.

Sam just stares at the young, beautiful man in front of him.

Dean, like his car, was also a jewel buried beneath layers of violence, abuse, and insecurity.

"Hey Sam." Dean's voice sounds deeper and chases an arrow of arousal through Sam's body. If Sam had desired the old Dean, he yearns with everything he has for this one.

"Hey, Dean."

They look at each other like strangers, and maybe it's because this time, two different men meet. This time they look at each other at eye level and Sam is full of pride.

The screen door to Bobby's house rattles open and Bobby stomps towards them.

"Sam, your car keys."

Sam pulls them out of his pocket and hands them to Bobby, staring at him questioningly.

Bobby throws his hands in the air. "I could be talking crap right now about having to go into town to get something, but we all know that's not true. 

Food's on the stove, hands off the good whiskey, and boys, you better not screw this up."

He gets into Sam's car, turns the music down with a disgusted look on his face, and drives away in a cloud of dust.

"Did he just steal my car?" Sam tries to lighten up the tense mood.

Dean shrugs and walks past Sam towards the porch.

"What you call a car."

Sam looks up at him, stunned at Dean's easy come-back.

  
  
  


A few minutes later, they're on the porch, both holding beers. Dean is sitting on the railing, his jacket hanging by his side and Sam is leaning against the siding .

It's still warm, even though the sun's almost down. Like the old days, Sam thinks, as he looks at Dean's profile. 

Dean realizes that Sam is looking at him and turns his face toward him. "What happened to your leg?" Dean asks with concern.

"Wasn't paying attention, that stupid mutt of a werewolf surprised me."

Sam pulls down the collar of his gray shirt and reveals some nasty scratch marks on his chest.

"Did you do him in?" Dean looks angrily at the wound.

Sam raises an eyebrow and gives Dean the "Bitch , of course" look.

Dean rolls his eyes before he takes a sip. "You shouldn't always go off alone Sam."

_I know,_ Sam thinks, and says. "I'll be fine."

Dean looks back at the junkyard.

Sam is angry at his own response, but he doesn't know how to phrase what he really wants to say. "How was it ?" he asks instead.

"How was what ?" Dean doesn’t look back, keeps staring at the yard.

"The Grand Canyon. I saw the postcard you sent to Bobby on the refrigerator."

Dean slowly turns to him. “Did you read it?“ He asks quietly.

“No, course not.“ 

Dean smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Then Dean starts to talk and the more he talks the more his eyes glow with enthusiasm. “I'd been traveling for ten nights to get there. Just me and the car. You know how beautiful this country is Sam? How big and wide the miles of fields are? When you roll down the window, feeling the wind on your skin and music coming out of the speaker? I've never felt anything like that. I've eaten sugary donuts and greasy cheeseburgers. Way too much coffee and one night definitely too much beer. I've washed dishes and fixed cars. Not once did I use Bobby's card.“ Dean's voice is full of pride and Sam smiles as he listens to him. “And then you drive down the long national highway, park at the Visitor Center and walk down the visitor's walkway as one of many. No one cares about me, no one tells me what to do. And out of nowhere, it's there. You think you should have seen it from a distance, but suddenly it's in front of you, and Sam, I wish I could explain it to you, but it's just so overwhelming.“ Dean's gaze wanders into the distance, as if he were standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon at that very moment. “I was just standing there, the wind was blowing over my body and I looked out into infinity, I saw this wonder of nature and I felt… “

"Happy?" Suggests Sam, but at that moment the smile disappears from Dean's face and he looks at Sam sadly.

"Lonely, I felt lonely. Because you know what? For years it was my most fervent wish to see this Canyon . And when I finally saw it, I realized what I really wanted wasn’t the Canyon. I wanted my family to be with me. I wanted my life back." Tears shimmer in Dean's eyes. 

Sam nervously peels at the sticker on the beer bottle. "I'm so sorry Dean."

"No, Sam, don't be. You made all this happen. I could never have been standing there without you."

Sam looks over at Dean and shakes his head. "You did this on your own Dean."

"Maybe.“ Dean puts the bottle aside and stands up. He remains leaning against the bench and holds on to it with his arms. “But I realized something else."

"What?" They can't take their eyes off each other.

"I understand why you had to go. I understand why you had to leave me behind."

"Dean, it's not like that. I wanted you to be free to choose. I wanted you to be free to go wherever you wanted."

"But what if that's not what I want?"

"Huh?"

"What's the point if you're talking about _my_ free will when _you_ deny me the one thing I really want?"

“Dean, please.“ Sam pushes himself away from the wall and reaches for his cigarettes. He tries to light one as Dean walks in front of him.

"You want to know what I want?" He steps towards Sam until Sam's back is touching the wall and he can't back away any further. Sharp green eyes sparkle at him.

"What do you want?" Sam's words are harsh.

Dean's right up there, takes the cigarette out of Sam`s mouth and flicks it away.

"First , I really hate those things. I hate the smell and the taste.“ He gets even closer to Sam, who slightly opens his legs to let Dean in even closer.

"Second, I want to hunt with you. I want you to take me with you, so someone will finally be there to save your ass so you don't get killed one day. I don't want to sit here worrying anymore."

Dean puts his hands on the wall, on either side of Sam. His lower body pressing up against Sam's.

"And finally, third. I want this. I want us to try. Because I already think about you every damn night. So, Sam Winchester , the real question isn't what I want. The question is: What do _you_ want?"

Sam's hands reach out to clasp Dean's head, his lips finding Dean's. It’s slick and messy with too much teeth, but he doesn’t care. Dean's hips raise up, pressing into Sam's groin. He feels Sam's dick harden against him and his own dick starts to fatten in his jeans. 

Sam stops for a moment and Dean whimpers against the loss of Sam`s mouth. “Want you Dean. Only you. Want you so fucking much.“

Sam's hands wander over Dean's upper body, touching him everywhere. They're kissing again like it's the only thing that matters in the entire universe.

“Bedroom,“ Dean moans when they finally catch their breath.

They almost fall up the stairs, unable to keep their hands off each other . 

But the moment they step inside Dean's bedroom and close the door, they look at each other, nearly shy. Everything after this night will change their lives forever.

Sam pulls his gray t-shirt over his head and throws it into a corner. Dean hesitates a bit longer, Sam gives him time.Finally, Dean takes his shirt off as well, but puts it neatly over the edge of the bed. The drill is still too deep in him.

"May I?" Sam whispers, reaching out to Dean. Tenderly, Sam's long fingers caress Dean's muscular upper arms. "You have changed _so_ much." Sam's fingertips run across Dean's chest.

"Do you like it?" asks Dean, his cheeks turning a little red.

Sam approaches him and a hand presses against Dean's cheek and pushes up his chin. "I desire you now as I have desired you all along."

Dean shuts his eyes and lets his head be heavy against Sam´s palm. 

Sam places a soft kiss against Dean’s lips and Dean opens his mouth. Their tongues meet for the first time and it's like an endorphin rush pumping through Dean's veins. They keep kissing and grabbing at each other’s body, as if they need to remind themselves that this is really happening.

The kiss is hot and intense, then changes to soft and careful.

Sam unbuttons Dean's pants while Dean unbuckles Sam's belt. Their pants fall down to their knees and while Sam kicks his back into the corner, Dean bends down.

With a judgmental look over to Sam's clothes corner, Dean folds his pants. "Couldn't you just," Dean starts, but Sam replies, "next time." Then Sam reaches into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down and off, and with an almost provocative look, throws them over as well. 

Dean closes his eyes and begins counting to ten, but he doesn’t get very far as Sam's mouth is occupying his lips again, moaning, touching, pushing him to the bed. They lay down side by side first and let their hands explode the other’s body. Sam trails down Dean's collarbone, his fingers walk over the memory of Dean's scars. They are white thin lines now and they are Dean`s past. Sam is going to be his future.

Sam's hand is on the small of Dean's back and gently slides under Dean's waistband. Sam knows that Dean has to give him the final okay to move forward. He tugs Dean on top of him, letting him set the pace, and feels Dean's hips moving over his naked dick, trapped hard and throbbing between them. Dean moans into Sam's mouth and wiggles his ass at Sam's big hand. That was the signal Sam was waiting for as he slides Dean's briefs down. When their dicks touch for the first time, neither can hold back a moan. The air is thick with sweat, passion, and lust. Suddenly Sam hesitates. “Fuck,“ he says more to himself.

“What?“ Dean mumbles, while he decides that Sam's nipple needs all of his attention.

Sam closes his eyes for a moment and feels Dean's teeth and lips torturing his sensitive bud. “My bag is still in my car,“ Sams moans, frustrated.

“So?“ Dean questions, while still sucking at the swollen nipple.

“So are all my supplies!“ Sam says in a mixture of lust and frustration.

Then Dean gets the message. “Fuck.“ He lays his head down on Sam's chest.

“Or not.“ Sam throws his arm over his eyes.

“I do have lube,“ Dean mumbles into Sam's stomach.

“What? Why?“ asks Sam, and he is really trying hard not to sound like a jealous dick.

Dean raises his head, then his right hand and looks mockingly at Sam.

"Forget I asked," Sam chuckles. "You better tell me where." Sam wiggles free from under Dean and shoves him off him unceremoniously.

"Top drawer."

Sam hurries to the small bedside chest. He triumphantly holds up the little bottle.

"Oh, God." Dean rolls his eyes and falls back onto the bed. 

Sam climbs over the side of the bed and back over Dean. He covers every inch of Dean's body with kisses. He literally buries himself in Dean's crotch licking over his balls and sliding his tongue over Dean's shaft until he sucks the tip completely into his mouth. Dean's cock twitches in Sam's mouth and Dean's upper body is covered with a flush of arousal. Then Sam opens the cap and lets some of the liquid run over Dean's hard cock before he spreads it around with his hand, pumping and stroking Dean's thick cock.

Dean looks at him for a second, then pulls Sam onto him. With their mouths open, their tongues play with each other, they share their breath, and it's not enough, no, not enough.

Out of breath, Sam slowly pushes himself up. His gaze stays fixed on Dean's eyes.

Sam grabs the lube again and drizzles it onto his fingers. He reaches behind himself and circles his hole while Dean's watching him, breathing heavily. 

Sam's long torso moves over him and Sam shoves one finger inside his puckering hole. “Oh fuck, yeah.“ Dean licks his lips and let his hands wander over Sams strong thighs. 

“Wanna ride you. Been dreaming about this for too long.“ Sam moans as Dean's dick slides along his crack, dipping between the pert cheeks. Sam works himself open, moving his hips up and down on Dean as if he is already inside of him. Finally Sam reaches underneath himself and directs Dean’s tip against his hole. Slowly he sinks down into Dean's lap and lets himself be filled by Dean. There's burning and stretching, but it's so good. Dean fills him, is inside him, twitching and pulsing. 

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

Dean's hands wander over Sam's hips. “So fucking beautiful.“ He keeps Sam steady and feels the tightness of Sam´s hole. 

“I need to move,“ Sam moans, and begins to lift up his hips. 

Dean feels his cock slide against Sam's inner muscles, and watches his dick disappear between Sam's open legs into Sam's slick hole. 

Sam feels amazing, he never felt so in tune with someone before. This wasn’t an anonymous quick fuck, this was more. He tightens his muscle around Dean's arousal and sighs when he drags a deep moan from Dean's lips. Sam doesn’t know how long he can keep this going without his own dick exploding, but he tries to keep himself on the edge without jumping over. He increases the speed, changes the angle, and finds a steady rhythm. 

Dean watches his beautiful lover fall apart.

Getting one hand on Sam's dick, he starts stroking it with his fist. 

“Dean, so close, so fucking close.“ Sam's eyes shut, and sweat beads on his forehead. 

Their movements become faster and faster and Dean looks up at Sam, lets Sam see his expression, open and raw when he comes inside Sam, hard and frantic, and he breaks apart under Sam's lust-blown eyes, barely managing to keep stroking Sam's dick, until Sam thrusts hard into Dean's hand and comes all over Dean's stomach.

Sam rises carefully from Dean's body, Dean's flaccid cock falling back onto his stomach.

Breathing heavily, Sam lies down next to Dean. They look at each other, bodies, arms, and legs all wrapped up into one. Sam's nose bumps into Dean's.

"Hey." Sam whispers against Dean's cheek.

"Hey yourself." Dean's long lashes dance like butterfly wings against Sam's lips. 

Sam will die for the soul that rests in his arms.

  
  


In the dark, Sam sneaks into the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. He takes a fresh glass from the cupboard and fills it with water. 

Outside, the moonlight shines on the Impala. 

While he empties the glass, he turns on the small lamp in the kitchen and goes to the fridge. He releases the magnet that holds the postcard there and turns it around.

His pulse beats faster when he realizes that the card is addressed to him and not to Bobby.

  
  


_Hey Sam,_

_I'm really here. You promised me I would get here, but back then, I didn't believe you._

_But you Sam, you believed in me when no one else did._

_On the way here, I discovered my love for classic rock. And there's this song and lyrics I can't get out of my head._

_If I leave here tomorrow_

_Would you still remember me?_

_For I must be traveling on, now_

_Cause there's too many places I've got to see_

_But, if I stayed here with you, girl_

_Things just couldn't be the same_

_Cause I'm as free as a bird now_

_And this bird you can not change_

  
  


_And as much as I have wished to come here, all this time, and to be this bird, there is nothing I wish more than to be with you._

_And I believe that. Even if you can't._

_This time it's me who believes in us._

_That we will meet again._

_Yours,_

_Dean Winchester_

  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
